^n\t^ 



y^^,£Z dc 







O rest yc, brother mariners, we will not 
wander ?nore.^^ 

The Lotos-Eaters. 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



ALFRED TENNYSON; 



POET LAUREATE. 



COMPLETE EDITION. 



ILLUSTRATED 



NEW YORK: 
JOHN WURTELE LOVELL, PUBLISHER, 

14 & 16 AsTOR Place. 
1880. 






Gift 
Miss Frances S.Hay 
July 18,1931 



CONTENTS 



Page. 
OEMS (Published 1830) :— 

To the Queen 7 

Clanbel 7 

Lihan 8 

I sabel 8 

Manana 9 

To ' 10 

Madehne 10 

Song.— The Owl 11 

Second Song 11 

Recollections of the Arabian Nights . 11 

Ode to Memory.... 13 

Song 14 

Adeline 15 

A Character 15 

The Poet 16 

The Poet's Mind , 17 

The Sea-Fairies ^ 17 



The Deserted House 

'J'he Dying Swan 18 

A Dirge 19 

Love and Death jg 

The Ballad of Oriana 20 

Circumstance 21 

The Merman 21 

The Mermaid 22 

Sonnet to J. M. K 22 

lEMS (Published 1832) :— 

The Lady of Shalott 23 

Mariana in the South 25 

Eleanore 26 

The Miller's Daughter 2S 

Fatima 30 

- CEnone 31 

The Sisters 36 

To ^ 36 

♦The Palace of Art 37 

_Lady Clara Vere de Vere 41 

The May Queen 42 

New-Year's Eve 43 

Conclusion........ 45 

The Lotos- Eaters , 46 

A Dream of Fair Women , 49 



Page. 

Margaret 53 

The Blackbird 54 

The Death of the Old Year 54 

ToJ S 55- 

" You ask me why, tho' ill at ease " - . 56 
' Of old sat Freedom on the heights". 57 
" Love thou thy land, with love far- 
brought '.'.. . ^......; 57 

The Goose .'.i... 58 

English Idyls and other Poems (Pub-~ 

iished 1842): — 

The Epic : . 59 

Morte d' Arthur 60 

The Gardener's Daughter ; or, The 

Pictures .1 65 

Dora 69 

Audley Court 72 

Walking to the Mail 73 

Edwin Morris ; or, The Lake 75 

St. Simeon Stvliles 78 

The Talking Oik 82 

Love and Duty 85 

The Golden Year ■ 86 

Ulysses 88 

Locksley Hall 89 

Godiva 94 

The Two Voices , 95 

The Day-Dream loi 

Amphion 10 1 

St. Agnes 106 

Sir Galahad 106 

Edward Gray 107 

W^iil Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue loS 
To L , after readmg a Life and Let- 
ters Ill 

To E. L., on his Travels in Greece . . m 

Lady Clare 112 

The Lord of Burleigh 113 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere . . 114 

A Farewell 114 

The Beggar Maid 115 

The Vision of Sin 115 

" Come no", when I am dead " 11$ 

(3) 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

The Eagle ii8 

" Move eastward, happy Earth, and 

leave " ii8 

" Break, break, break" ii8 

The Poet's Song n8 



The Princess: A Medley. 



In Mbmoriam. 



'79 



Maitd, and other Poems :— 

Maud 219 

The Brook ; an Idyl 241 

The Letters 245 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wel- 
lington '. 246 

The Daisy 249 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice 251 

Will 252 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 252 

Idyls of the King,— 

Dedication 253 

Enid 254 

Vivien ,.........,...•>. 287 

Elaine 302 

Guinevere •- 32S 



Enoch Arden. 



340 

Additional Poems:— 

Aylmer's Field 357 

Sea Dreams 372 

The Grandmother 378 

Northern Farmer 381 

Tithonus 383 

The Voyage 385 

In the Valley of Cauteretz 386 

The Flov/er 386 

Requiescat 387 

The Sailor-Boy 387 

The Islet 387 

The Ringlet 38S 

A Welcome to Alexandra 388 

Ode sung at the Opening of the Inter- 
national Exiiibition ,. 389 

A Dedication 390 

The Captain ; a Legend of the Navy.. 390 

Three Sonnets to^a Coquette 391 

On a Mourner 392 

Song 392 

Song 392 

Experiments : — 

Boadicea 393 

In Quantity 395 

Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad 
in Blank Verse 396 

The Holy Grail and other Poems :— 

The Coming of Arthur 397 

The Holy Grail 4C'S 

"Pelleas and Ettarre 422 

The Passing of Arthur 433 



Page. 
Miscellaneous r— 

Northern Farmer. New Style 441 

The Victim 442 

Wages 443 

The Higher Pantheism 444 

Lucretius 444 

The Golden Supper 449 

Additional Poems:— 

Timbuctoo 457 

Poems published tn the Edition of 
1830. and omitted in Later Edi- 
tions — 

Elegiacs 461 

The '* How" and the "Why " 462 

Supposed Confessions of a second-rate 
sensitive Mind not in Unity with it- 
self.... 462 

The Burial of Love 465 

To 465 

Song 465 

Song 465 

Song 466 

Nothing will die 466 

All Things will die 467 

Hero to Leander. 467 

The Mystic 46S 

The Grasshopper 469 

Love, Pride, and Forgetfulness 469 

Chorus in an unpublished Drama, 

written very early 469 

Lost Hope o 470 

The Tears of Heaven 470 

Love and Sorrow 470 

To a Lady Sleeping 471 

Sonnet - 47 : 

Sonnet 471 

Sonnet 471 

Sonnet. 472 

Love 472 

The Kraken 473 

English War-Song 473 

National Song 474 

Dualisms 474 

We are Free 474 

The Sea Fairies 47^ 

Ot peovre? , . . . . 4^5 

Poems published in the Edition of 
1833, and omitted in Later Edi- 
tions : — 

Sonnet 476 

To 476 

Bonaparte 477 

Sonnets 477 

The Hesperides 47S 

Rosalind 479 

Song 480 

Kate 480 

Sonnet written on hearing of the Out- 
break of the Polish Insurrection..-. 4S1 
Sonnet on tlie Result of the late Rus- 
sian Invasion of Poland. . , , 48 1 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

Sonnet 481 

O Darling Room 482 

To Christopher North 482 

Fugitive Poems.— 

No More 482 

Anacreontics 482 

A Fragment 483 

Sonnet 483 

Sonnet 483 

The Skipping-Rope 484 

The New Timon and the Poets 484 

Stanzas 484 

Sonnet to William Charles Macready, 485 

Britons, guard your own 485 

The Third of February, 1852 4S6 

Hands ail round 487 

The War 488 

On a Spiteful Letter 488 

1865- j866 4S8 

The Window; ok, the Songs of the 
Wrens. 
On the Hill 4S9 



Page. 

At the WindoVf 490 

Gone ! 4^0 

Winter 490 

Spring 490 

The Letter 490 

No Answer 491 

No Answer 491 

The Answer 49 f 

Ay! 49t 

When? 492 

Marriage Morning 492 

Gareth and Lynette 492 

The Last Tournament 519 

Epilogue to Idyls of the King 533 

A Welcome to the Duke and Duch- 
ess of Edinburgh 535 

In the Garden at Sw'ainston 536 

The Voice and the Peak «.,,. 536 

Queen Mary 537 

Harold 615 

The Revenge 65 7 

The Defence of Lucknow 

Dedicatory Poem to Princess Alice.... 661 
The Lover's Tale .. 664 



POEMS 



(published 1S30.) 



TO THE QUEEN. 

Revered, beloved — O you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that utter'd nothing base ; 

And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you 

time 
To make demand of m.odern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there ; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes, 
And thro' wild March the throstle 

calls, 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sunlit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
For tho' the faults v/ere thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of your blood 
As noble till the latest day ! 
May children of our children sa}-, 

" She wrought her people lasting good ; 

" Her court was pure ; her life serene ; 

God gave her peace ; her land re- 
posed ; [closed 

A thousand claims to reverence 
[n her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; 

" And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons, when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 



" By shaping some august decree, 
Which kept her throne unshaken 

still, 
Broad based upon her people's will, 

And compassed by the inviolate sea." 

]Makch, 1S51. 



CLARIBEL. 

A MELODY. 



Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die. 
Letting the rose-leaves fall : 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony. 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



At eve the beetle boometh 
Athwart the thicket lone : 

At noon the wild bee hummeth 
About the moss'd headstone : 

At midnight the moon cometh, 
And looketh down alone. 



Her song the lintwhite swelleth. 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth. 
The slumberous wave outwelleth. 

The babbling runnel crispeth, 
The hollow grot replieth 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 
(7) 



LILIAA'.J-ISABEL. 



LILIAN. 
I. 

Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, _^ 
When I ask her if she love me, 
Claps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all she can ; 
She'll not tell me if she love me. 

Cruel little Lilian. 



When my passion seeks 

Pleasance in love-sighs 
She, looking thro* and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 

Smiling, never speaks : 

So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 

From beneath her gather'd wimple 

Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 

Till the lightning laughters dimple 

The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 
Then away she flies. 



Prythee weep, May Lilian ! 
Gayety without eclipse 

Wearieth me. May Lilian : 
rhro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth ; 

Prythee weep, May Lilian. 

4- 

Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 



ISABEL. 
I. 

Eyes not down-dropped nor over-bright, 

but fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, 
Clear.without heat,undying,tended by 
Pure vestal thoughts in the trans- 
lucent fane [pread, 
Of her still spirit; locks not wide dis- 



Madonna-wise on cither side her 

head ; [reign 

Sweet lips whereon perpetually did 

The summer calm of golden charity, 

Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, 

Revered Isabel, the crown and 

head. 

The stately flower of female fortitude, 

Of perfect wifehood, and pure low- 

lihead. 

The intuitive decision of a bright 

And thorough-edged intellect to part 

Error from crime j a prudence to 

withhold ; [in gold 

The laws of marriage character'd 

Upon the blanched tablets of her 

heart ; [light 

A love still burning upward, giving 

To read those laws ; an accent very low 

In blandishment, but a most silver flow 

Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, 

Right to the heart and brain, tho' un- 

descried, [tleness 

Winning its way with extreme gen- 

Thro' all the outworks of suspicious 

pride ; 
A courage to endure and to obey ; 
A hate of gossip parlance and of sway, 
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect 
wife. 

3- 

The mellowed reflex of a winter moon ; 

A clear stream flowing with a muddy 

one. 

Till in its onward current it absorbs 

With swifter movement and in 

purer light [brother ; 

The vexed eddies of its wayward 

A leaning and upbearing parasite, 

Clothing the stem, which else had 

fallen quite, [brosial orbs 

With' cluster'd flower-bells and am- 

Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on 

each other — [hath not another 

Shadow forth thee; — the world 

(Though all her fairest forms are types 

of thee. 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd,chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA. 



MARIANA. 

" Mariana in the moated grange." 

Meaiure/or Measure. 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 
That held the peach to the garden- 
^Yall. [strange : 

The broken sheds look'd sad and 
Unlifted was the clinking latch : 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " ' 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
Her te.ars fell ere the dews were 
dried : 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats, 

When thickest dark did trance the 

sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by, 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, " The night is 
dreary, 
He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I w'ould that I were dead ! " 

Upon the middle of the night. 

Waking she heard the night-fowl 
crow : 
The cock Sung out an hour eve light : 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Cam.e to her: without hope of change. 
In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed 
morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

About a stone-cast from the wall 
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, 

And o'er it many, round and small. 
The clustered marish-mosses crept. 



Hard by a poplar shook alway, 
All silver-green with gnarled bark : 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level %vaste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not,'' she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

And ever when the moon was low, 
And the shrill v/inds \^ere up and 
away. 
In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very lov\-, 
And wild winds bound within their 

cell, 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, " The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

All day within the dreamy house, 

The'doors upon their hinges creak'd ; 
The blue fly sung in the pane ; the 
mouse [shriek' d. 

Behind the mouldering wainscot 
Or from the crevice peered about. 
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, " jMy life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I v/ere dead ! " " 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 
Her sense ; but most she loathed the 
hour 
When the thick-moated sunbeam lay 
Athwart the chambers, and the day 
Was sloping toward his v;estern bower. 
Then said she, " I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said ; 

She wept, ""I am aweary, aweai'v, 

O God, that I were dead ! " 



lO 



TO 



MADELINE. 



TO 



Clear-headkd friend, ^Yhosc joyful 
scorn, [atwain 

Edged with sharp laughter, cuts 
The knots that tangle human 
creeds, [strain 

The wounding cords that bind and 
The heart until it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 
^ Roof not a glance so keen as 
thine : 
If aught of prophecy be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 



Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit ; 

Falsehood shall bare her plaited 
brow : [now 

Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not 
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit, 
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant 
swords 

Can do away that ancient lie ; 

A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. 

3- 

Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch. 
Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost 

need. 
Thy kingly intellect shall feed, 
Until she be an athlete bold, 
And weary with a finger's touch 

Those writhed limbs of lightning 
speed ; [old, 

Like that strange angel which of 
Until the breaking of the light. 
Wrestled with wandering Israel, 
Past Yabbok brook the livelong 
night, 
And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
In the dim tract of Penuel. 



MADELINE. 
I. 

Thou art not steeped in giDlden lan- 
guors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine. 
Ever varying JNIadeline, 



Thro' light and shadow thou dost 

range, 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 
Delicious spitfes and darling angers, 
And airy forms of flitting change. 



Smiling, frowning, evermore. 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thine 
Of v/ealthy smiles; but who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? 
Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 

Who may know? 
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light-glooming over eyes divine. 
Like little clouds, sun-fringed, are thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
F"rom one another. 
Each to each is dearest brother ; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore. 
Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
Ever varying Madeline. 



A subtle, sudden flame. 
By veering passion fann'd, 

About thee breaks and dances; 
When I would kiss thy hand. 
The flush of anger'd shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden- curved frown. 
But when I turn away. 
Thou, willing me to stay, 

Woocst not, nor vainly wranglest ; 

But, looking fixedly the while, 
All my bounding heart entanglest 

In a golden-netted smile ; 
Then in madness and in bliss, 
If my lips should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously, 
Again thou blushest angerly; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 



SONGS.— RECOJ.LECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS, il 



SONG.— THE OWL. 
I. 

When cats run home and light is come, 

And dew is cold upon the ground, 

And the far-off stream is dumb, 

And the whirring sail goes round. 

And the whirring sail goes round ; 

Alone and warming his five wits, 

The white owl in the belfry sits. 



When merry milkmaids click the latch. 
And rarely smells the new-mown hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the 
thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his roundelay : 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAME. 
I. 

Thy tuwhits are lull'd I wot, 

Thy tuwhoos of yesternight. 
Which upon the dark afloat. 
So took echo with delight. 
So took echo with delight, 
That her voice untuneful grown, 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 

I would mock thy chaunt anew ; 

But I cannot mimic it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo. 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo,tuwhit,tuwhit, tuwhoo-c-o. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE 
ARABIAN NIGHTS. 

"When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew 
free 

In the silken sail of infancy, 
The tide of time flow'd back with me. 

The forward-flowing tide of time : ■ 



And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne. 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, 
High-walled gardens green and old; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and 

clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue : 
By garden porches on the brim. 
The costly doors flung open wide, 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side : 
In sooth it was a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans 

guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which 

crept 

Adown to where the water slept. 

A goodly place, a goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strowu calm, 
Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm. 
Imprisoning sweets, which as they 
clomb [dome 

Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the 
Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time. 
For it was in the goldeii prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 



12 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-color'd shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large, 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odor in the golden prim.e 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon-grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 
Not he : but something which possess'd 
The darkness of the world, delight, 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love. 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, 
Apart from place, withholding time, 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber'd: the solemn palms were 

ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : 
A sudden splendor from behind 
Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold- 
green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diam.ond-plots 
Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead. 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid. 
Grew darker from that under-flame : 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat, 



\w marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank, 

Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks. 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn. 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 
Graven with emblems of the time, 
In honor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors, 
Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up Y^'ith golden balustrade. 
After the fashion of the time. 
And humor of the golden prime 
Ot good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As vvith the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvel'-iun 
time, 

To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 
Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony. 
In many a dark delicious curl, 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 



ODE TQ MEMORY. 



13 



The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side, 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 
Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 
Engarlanded and diaper'd 
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 
With merriment of kingly pride. 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime, 
The Good Haroun Alraschid ! 



ODE TO MEMORY. 
I. 

Thou who stealest fire. 
From the fountains of the past. 
To glorify the present ; oh, haste, 

Visit my low desire ! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 
2. 
Come not as thou camest of late. 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day ; but robed in soften'd 
light 

Of orient state, 
Whilome thou camest with the morning 
mist, 
Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have 
kiss'd, 

When she, as thou. 

Stays on her floating locks the lovely 

freight [shoots 

Of overflowing blooms, and earliest 

Of orient green, giving safe pledge of 

fruits, 
Which in wintertid? shall star 
The black earth will brilliance rare, 

3- 

Whilome thou camest with the morning 

mist, 

And with the evening cloud, 

Showering thy gleaned wealth into my 

©pen breast, 



(Those peerless flowers which in the 
rudest wind 

Never grow sere. 
When rooted in the garden of the mind, 
Because they are the earliest of the 
year). 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken 
rest [Hope. 

Thou leddest by the hand thine infant 
The eddying of her garments caught 
from thee [the cope 

The light of thy great presence ; und 
Of the half-attain'd futurity. 
Though deep not fathomless. 
Was cloven v.ith the m.illion stars 

which tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
Small thought v/as there of life's dis- 
tress ; [could dull 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and 

beautiful : 
Sure she was nigher.to heaven's spheres, 
Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurit)% 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come forth I charge thee, arise. 
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad 

eyes ! [ing vines 

Thou comest not with shove's of flaunt- 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory! 
Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the v,'all 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : 
Come from the woods that belt the 

gray hill-side, 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door, 
And chiefly from the' brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed 

sand, 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn. 
In every elbow and turn, _ 



H 



SOA^C. 



land. 

O ! hither lead thy feet ! 
Pour round mine cars the livelong 

bleat [folds, 

Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled 

Upon the ridged wolds, 
When the first matin-song hath waken'd 

loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 
What time the amber morn 
Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung 

cloud. « 



Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led. 

With music and sweet showers 

Of festal flov\'ers, 

Unto the dwelling she must 

sway. [Memory, 

V/ell hast thou done, great artist 

In setting round thy first experiment 

With royal frame-work of wrought 

gold; [essay, 

Needs must thou dearly love thy first 

And foremost in thy various gallery 

Place it, where sweetest sunlight 

falls 
Upon the storied walls; 

For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased 
thee, [fairest 

That all which thou hast drawn of 
Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist- 
like, 
Ever retiring thou dost gaze 
On the prime labor of thine early days : 
No matter v>'hat the sketch might be ; 
Whether the high field on the bushless 

pike, 
Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped hills that mound the sea, 
Overblown with murmurs harsh, 
Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste 
enormous marsh, 



Where from the frequent bridge, 

Like emblems of infinit}-, 

The trenched waters run from sky to 

sky; 
Or a garden bower'd close 
With plaited alleys of the trailing 

rose, [grots, 

Long alleys falling down to twilight 
Or opening upon level plots 
Of crowned lilies, standing near 
Purple-spiked lavender : 
Whither in after life retired 
From brawling storms, 
From weary wind. 
With youthful fancy reinspired, 
We may hold converse with all forms 
Of the many-sided mind. 
And those whom passion hath not 

blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted, myriad-m.inded. 
My friend, with you to live alone. 
Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG. 



A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : 

To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly. 
At his work you may hear him sob and 
sigh 
In the walks ; 

Earthward he bowcth the heavy 
stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers : 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 
chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hanss the tisier-lilv. 



The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 
As a sick man's room when he taketh 
repose 
An hour before death ; 



ADELINE. — A CHAR A CTER. 



IS 



My very heart faints and my whole 
soul grieves [leaves, 

At the moist rich smell of the rotting 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box 
beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 
chilly. 
Heavily hangs the hollyhoclc, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



ADELINE. 



Mystery of mysteries, 

Faintly sm'iling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 
But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair ; 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from^ out my breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shado^^7, dreaming Adeline ? 



Whence that aery bloom of thine, 

Like a lily which the sun 
Looks thro' in his sad decline, 

And a rose-bush leans upon, 
Thou that faintly smilest still, 

As a Naiad in a well, 

Looking at the set of day, 
Or a phantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past away, 
Ere the placid lips be cold ? 
Wherefore those faint sm.iles of thine, 

Spiritual Adeline ? 

3- 
What hope or fear or joy is thine ? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou art not all alone : 
Do beating hearts of salient 
springs 
Keep measure with thine own ? 
Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their wings ? 



Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 

Or v.'hen little airs arise, 

How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath t 
Hast thou look'd upon the breath 

Of the lilies at sunrise ? 
Wherefore that faint smile of thine, 
Shadowv, dreaming Adeline ? 



Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee } whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 

And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 

5- 
Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies .'' 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the morn, 
Dripping with Sabasan spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn. 

Breathing Light against thy face 

While his locks a-dropping twined 

Round thy neck in subtle ring 

Make a carcanet of rays, 

And ye talk together still, 
In the language wdierewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill .'' 
Hence that look and smile of thine. 
Spiritual Adeline. 



A CHARACTER. 

With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, " The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of thin 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 



i6 



THE POET. 



lie spake of beauty : that the dull 
Saw no divinity in grass, 
Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; 
Then looking as 'twere in a glass, 
\\<t smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his 

hair, 
And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue : not the gods 
More purely, when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by : 
And with a sweeping of the arm, 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye. 
Devolved his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvass'd human mysteries, 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes. 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In imiDotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek, 
Him.self xxx^o himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed : 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, 
And other than his form of creed. 
With chisel I'd features clear and sleek. 



THE POET. 

The poet in a golden clime was born, 

With golden stars above ; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the 
scorn of scorn, 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good 
and ill 
He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 
An open scroll, • 

Before him lay: with echoing feet he 
threaded 
The secretest walks of fame : 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts 
were headed 
And wing'd with flame, 



Like Indian reeds blown from his silver 
tongue, 
And of so fierce a flight, 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung. 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which 
bore 
Them earthward till they lit ; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field 
flower 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth 
anew, 
Where'er they fell, behold, 
Ivike to the mother plant in semblance, 
grew 
A flower all gold, 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to 
fling 
The winged shafts of truth. 
To throng with stately blooms the 
breathing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with 
beams, 
Tho' one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many 
dreams 
Of high desire. 

Tluis truth was multiplied on truth, the 
world 
Like one great garden show'd, 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark 
upcurl'd, 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august 
sunrise 
Her beautiful bold brow, 
When rites and forms before his burn" 
ing eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden 
robes 
Sunn'd by those orient skies : 
But round about the circles of the 
globes 
Of her keen eves 



7 HE POET'S MIND. — THE SEA-FAIRIES. 



17 



And in her raiment's hem was traced 
in flame 
Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power, — a sacred 
name. 
And when she spake, 

Her words did gather thunder as they 
ran, 
And as the lightning to the thunder 
Which follows it, riving the spirit of 
man, 
Making earth wonder, 

So w^as their meaning to her words. 
No sword 
Of wrath her right arm whirl 'd. 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his 
word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND. 



Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thv shallow wit: 
Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever. 
Flowing like a crystal river ; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 



Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; 

All the place is holy ground ; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it 
around. [cheer. 

The flowers would faint at your cruel 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 



In the heart of the garden the merry 

bird chants. 
It would fall to the ground if you came 
in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning, 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
P'rom the brain of the purple moun- 
tain 
Which stands in the distance yonder: 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
And the mountain draws it from 

Heaven above, 
And it sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and 
full, _ [so dull ; 

You never would hear it ; your ears are 
So keep where you are : you are foul 
with sin ; [came in. 

It would shrink to the earth if you 



THE SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and 
saw, [ning foam. 

Betwixt the green brink and the run- 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and 
bosoms prest [they mused, 

To little harps of gold ; and while 
Whispering to each other half in fear. 
Shrill music reach'd them on the 
middle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither 

away ? fly no more. 
Whither away from the high green field, 

and the happy blossoming shore .-* 
Day and night to the billow the foun- 
tain calls ; 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea : 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, 
And thick with white bells the clover- 

hil! swells 
High over the full-toned sea: 



i8 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. — THE DYINC SIVA.V. 



O hither, come hither and furl your 

sails, 
Come hither to me and to me : 
Hither, come hither and frolic and play; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day: 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 
P'or here are the blissful downs and 

dales. 
And merrily, merrily carol the gales, 
And the spangle dances in bight and 

bay. 
And the rainbow forms and flies on the 

land 
Over the islands free ; 
And the rainbow lives in the curve of 

the sand ; 
Hither, come hither and see ; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising 

wave. 
And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be : 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords 
For merry brides are we : 
We will k ss sweet kisses, and speak 

sweet words : 
O listen, li-sten, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee ; 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the 

golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who cai^ light on as happy a shore 
All the world o"er, all the world o'er? 
Whither away ? listen and stay : mar- 
iner, mariner, fly no more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 



Life and Thought have gone away 
Side by side. 
Leaving door and windows wide 
Careless tenants they ! 



All within is dark as night : 
In the w ndows is no Light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hin^e before. 



Close the door, the shutters close, 
Or thro' the windows we shall 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 



Come away • no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 

5- 
Come away : for Life and Thought 
Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 
A mansion incorruptible. 

Would they could have stayed with 
usl 



THE DYING SWAN. 

I. 

The plain was grassy, wild and bare. 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 

Which had built up evenwhere 
An under-roof of doleful gray. 

With an inner voice the river ran, 

Adown it floated a dying swan, 
And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 

Ever the weary wind went on. 

And took the reed-tops as it went 



Some blue peaks in the distance rose. 
And white against the cold-white sky. 
Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept, 
And shook the wave as the wind did 

sigh ; 
Above in the wind was the swallow, 
Chasing itself at its own wild will. 
And far thro' the marish green and still 

The tangled water-courses slept, 
Shot over 'with purple, and green, and 
yellow. 



A DIRGE.— LOVE AND DEATH. 



19 



The wild swan's death-hymn took the 

soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and clear ; 
And floating about the under-sky, 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach 

stole ; 
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear, 
Uut anon her awful jubilant voice, 
With a music strange and manifold, 
Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 
As when a mighty people rejoice 
With shawms, and with cymbals, and 

harps of gold, 
And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd 
Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 
To the shepherd who watcheth the 
. evening star. [ing weeds, 

And the creeping mosses and clamber- 
And the willow-branches hoar and 
dank, [reeds, 

And the wavy swell of the soughing 
And the wave-worn horns of the echo- 
ing band. [throng 
And the silvery marish- flowers that 
The desolate creeks and pools among, 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 



A DIRGE. 



Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast. 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them r.tve. 



Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny .^ 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

4- 
Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 
The woodbine and eglatere 
Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Round thee blow, self-pleacned deep, 
Bramble-roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave- 
Let them rave. 
6. 
The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 

Kings have no such couch as thine, 

As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Wild words wander here and there ; 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused : 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was gath> 

er-ng light 
Love paced the thvmv plots of Paradise, 

And all about him roll'd his lustrous 



20 



THE BALLAD OF OR L ANA. 



When, turning round a cassia, full in 

view 
Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, 
And talking to himself, first met his 

sight : I walks are mine." 

" You must begone," said Death, *' these 
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans 

for flight ; [is thine : 

Yet ere he parted said, " This hour 
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the 

tree [neath. 

Stands in the sun and shadows all be- 
So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of death ; 
The shadow passeth when the tree shall 

fall, 
But I shall reign forever over all." 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 

My heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Oriana. 
When the long dun wolds are ribb'd 

with snow. 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana: 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the yewwood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 



She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana : 
She watch' d my crest among them all, 

Oriana: 
She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
When forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana: 
The damned arrow glanced aside, 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my 
bride, 

Oriana! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace. 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd me where I 
lay, 

Oriana ! 
How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana .'' 
How could I look upon the day ? 
They should have stabb'd me where I 
lay, 

Oriana — 
They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 

Oriana! 
O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : [seek, 

What wantest thou.^ whom dost thou 

Oriana ? 



CIRCUMSTANCE,— THE MERMAN. 



21 



I cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel tlie tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 
Oriana ! 

happy thou that liest low, . 

Oriana ! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland winds pipe down the 
sea, 

Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two children in two neighbor villages 
Playing mad pranks along the healthy 

leas ; 
Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard 

wall ; [ease ; 

Two lives bound fast in one with golden 
Two graves grass-green beside a gray 

church-tower, 
Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blos- 

somed ; 
Two children in one hamlet born and 

bred ; 
^ So runs the round of life from hour to 

hour. 



THE MERMAN. 



Who would be 
A merman bold, 
Sitting alone, 
Singing alone 
Under the sea, 
With a crown of gold, 
On a throne .? 

2. 

I would be a merman bold ; [day; 
I would sit and sing the whole of the 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice 
of power ; [and play 

But at night I would roam abroad 
With the mermaids in and out of the 
rocks, [sea-flower ; 

Dressing their hair with the white 
And holding them back by their flow- 
ing locks 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd 
me 
Laughingly, laughingly; 
And then we would wander away, 
away [and high, 

To the pale-green sea-groves straight 
Chasing each other merrily. 

3- 

There would be neither moon nor star ; 

But the wave would make music above 

us afar — ["ight — 

Low thunder and light in the magic 

Neither moon nor star. 

We would call aloud in the dreamy 

dells, [cry 

Call to each other and whoop and 

All night, merrilv, merrily ; 

Theywould pelt me with starry spangles 

and shells, [between. 

Laughing and clapping their hands 

All night, merrily, merrily : 
But I would throw to them back in 

mine 
Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd 
me 
Laughingly, laughingly. 



22 



THE MERMAID. — SONNET TO J M. A 



Oh ! what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! 
Sott are the moss-beds under the sea ; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 

I. 

Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea, 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne ? 

I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of 
the day ; [my hair; 

With a comb of pearl I would comb 
And still as I comb'd I would sing 
and say, [me ? " 

" Who is it loves me ? who loves not 
I would comb my hair till my ring- 
lets would fall, 
Low adown, low adown, 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 
Low adown and around, [gold 
And I should look like a fountain of 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall : 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central 

deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look 
in at the gate [of me. 

With his large calm eyes for the love 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 

3- , 

But at night I would wander away, 

away, [flowing locks, 

I would fling on each side my low- 

And lightly vault from the throne and 

play [rocks; 

With thennermcn ia and out of the 



We would run to and fro, and hide and 

seek, [son shells, 

On the broad sea-wolds in the crim- 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the 

sea. [shriek, 

But if any came near I would call, and 
And adown the steep like a wave I 

would leap [from the dells ; 

From the diamond-ledges that jut 

For I would not be kiss'd by all who 

would list, [sea ; 

Of the bold merry mermen under the 
They would sue me, and woo me, and 

flatter me. 
In the purple twilights under the sea ; 
But the king of them all would carry 

me. 
Woo me, and win me, and marry me, 
In the branching jaspers under the sea; 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet silently. 
All looking up for the love of me. 
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned. 

and soft [of the sea, 

Would lean out from the hollow sphere 
All looking down for the love of me. 



SONNET TO J. M. K. 

My hope and heart is with thee — thou , 

wilt be 
A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 
To scare church-harpies from the 
master's feast ; [thee ; 

Our dusted velvets have much need of 
Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws, 
Distill'd from some worm-canker'd 

homily; 
But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 
To embattail and to wall about thy cause 
With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 
The humming of the drowsy pulpit- 
drone [worn-out clerk 
Half God's good sabbath, while the 
Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from 
a throne [dark 
Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the 
Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and ^ 
mark. 



POEMS 



(published 1832.) 



TThis division of ihis volume was published in the winter of 1832. Some of the poems have 
been considerably altered. Others liave been added, which, with one exception, were written 
in 1833.] 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

TART I. 
On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many tower'd Camelot; 
And up and down the people g'o, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below. 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver. 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs forever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers, 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd, 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand .'' 
Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley, 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot: 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 



PART II. 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web of colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other cnre hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot : 
There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls. 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad. 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, • 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, vk^ith plumes and lights, 

And music, went to Camelot: 
Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed; 
" I am half-sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 
(23) 



24 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



PART III. 

A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley-sheaves, 
The sua came dazzling thro' the leaves. 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A redcross knight forever kneeled 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot : 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather. 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burned like one burning flame to- 
gether, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright. 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight 
glow'd ; [trode ; 

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
" Tirra lirra," by the rfver 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 
-She made three paces thro' the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 
" The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning. 
The . broad stream in his banks com- 
plaining, 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 
The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse — 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she 

lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot ; 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among. 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot; 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side. 
Singing in her song she died, ' 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony. 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

A corse between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her 
name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 



MART ANA IN THE SOUTH. 



Who is this ? and what is here ? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer : 
And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot: 
But Lancelot mused a little space : 
He said, " She has a lovely face : 
God in his mercv lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott." 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines, 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines : 

A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 

An empty river-bed before. 

And shallows on a distant shore, 

In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mary," made she moan, 
And "Ave Mary," night and 
morn, [alone, 

And "Ah," she sang, "to be all 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 

She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly <lown 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left and right, and made appear, 
Still-li^ hted in a secret shrine, 
Her mel ncholy eyes divine, 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And "Ave Mary," was her moan, 

" Madonna, sad is night and 

morn" ; 

And "Ah," she sang, "to be all 

alone, [lorn." 

To live forgotten, and love for- 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 
Into deep orange o'er the sea. 

Low on her knees herself she cast, 
Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; 

Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load." 
And on the liquid mirror glow'd 

The clear perfection of her face. 



" Is this the form," she made her 

moan, [morn } " 

" That won his praises night and 

And "Ah," she said, "but I wake 

alone, [lorn." 

I sleep forgotten, I wake lor- 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would 
bleat, 
Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 
But day increased from heat to heat. 

On stony drought and steaming salt ; 
Till now at noon she slept again. 
And seem'd knee-deep in mountain 

grass. 
And heard her native breezes pass. 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 
She breathed in sleep a lower 
moan, [morn, 

And murmuring, as at night and 
She thought, "My spirit is here 
alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke : the babble of the stream 
Fell, and without the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 
More inward than at night or 
morn, [alone ^ 

" Sweet Mother, let me not here 
Live forgotten and die forlorn." 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters breathing of her worth, 
For " Love," they said, " must needs 

be true, 
' To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seem'd to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone forevermore." 

" O cruel heart," she changed her 
tone, - [scorn, 

"And cruel love, whose end is 
Is this the end to be left alone. 
To live forgotten, and die for- 
lorn ! " 



/ 



26 



ELEANORE. 



But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

"But thou shalt be alone no more." 
And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day de- 
creased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 
*' The day to night," she made her 
moan, [morn, 

" The day to night, the night to 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 

At eve a dry cicala sung. 

There came a sound as of the sea ; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 

And lean'd upcm the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears. 
And deepening through the silent 
spheres. 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 
And weeping then she made her 
moan, [not morn, 

" The night comes on" that knows 
When I shall cease to be all alone-, 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 



ELEANORE. 



Thy dark eyes open'd not, [lish air, 
Nor first reveal'd themselves to Eng- 

For there is nothing here, 
Which, from the outward to the in- 
ward brought. 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood. 

Thou wert born, on a summer 
morn, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 

With breezes from our oaken 

glades, I land 

But thou wert nursed in some delicious 

Of lavish lights,and floating shades : 



And flattering thy childish thought 
The oriental fairy brought. 
At the moment of thy birth, 
From old well-heads of haunted rills. 
And the hearts of purple hills, [shore, 
And shadow'd coves on a sunny 
The choicest wealth of all the 
earth. 
Jewel or shell, or starry ore. 
To deck thy cradle, Eleiinore. 



Or the yellow-banded bees, 
Thro' half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze, 

Fed thee, a child, lying alone, 
With whitest honey in fairy gar- 
dens cull'd — 
A glorious child, dreaming alone. 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding 
down. 
With the hum of swarming bees 

Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 



Who may minister to thee.'' 
Summer herself should minister 

To thee, with fruitage golden- 
rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be. 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower [blinded 
Grape thicken'd from the light and 
With many a deep-hued bell-like 
flower 
Of fragrant trailers, when the air 
Sleepeth over all the heaven, 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowing shore, 
Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleanore ! 



How may full-sail'd verse express, 
How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleanore .? 
The luxuriant svmmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore ? 



ELE^NORE. 



27 



Every turn and glance of thine, 
Every lineament divine, 

Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow, 
That stays upon thee ? For in 
thee " [single : 

Is nothing sudden, nothing 
Like two streams of incense free 
From one censer, in one 
shrine, _ |gle, 

Thought and motion min- 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho' 
Thev were modulated so 
To an unheard melody, 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 

Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep : 
Who may express thee, Eleanore ? 



I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold. 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so wrapt in ecstasies. 
To stand apart, and to adore, 
Gazing on thee forevermore. 
Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 

6. 

Sometimes, with most intensity 
Gazing, I seem to see [asleep, 

Thought folded over thought, smiling 
Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and 
deep [quite, 

In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd 
I cannot veil, or droop my sight. 
But am as nothing in its light : 
As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 
Ev'n while we gaze on it, [slowly grow 
Should slowly round his orb, and 
To a full face, there like a sun remain 
Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, 

And draw itself to what it was be- 
fore ; 



So full, so deep, so slow, 
Thought seems to come and go 
In thy large eyes, imperial Elea- 
nore. 



As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, 
Roof'd the world with doubt and 
fear. 
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere. 
Grow golden all about the sky ; [less, 
In thee all passion becomes passion- 
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness. 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation. 
Falling into a still delight, 

And luxury of contemplation: 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and Iving still 

Shadow forth the banks at will : 
Or sometimes they swell and move. 
Pressing up against the land. 
With motions of the outer sea: 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and 
sense 
Of Passion gazing upon thee, 
liis bow-string slackened languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand, 
Droops both his wings, regarding 
thee. 
And so would languish evermore. 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 0. 



But when I see thee roam, with tresses 

unconfined, 
While the amorous, odorous wind 
Breathes low between the sunset and 
the moon ; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon. 
On silken cushions half reclined; 

I watch thy grace ; and in its 
place 
My heart a charmed slumber keeps, 

While I muse upon thy face; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 

From thy rose-red lips MY name 
Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon, 



28 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



With dinning sound my ears arc rife, 
My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
I lose my color, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of 
warmest life. 
I die with my delight, before 

I hear what I would hear from 

thee ; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I 7uoidd be dying evermore. 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

I SEE the wealthy miller yet. 

His double chin, his portly size. 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, 
Seem'd half-within and halt-without, 

And full of dealings with the world ? 

In yonder chair I see him sit, [cup ; 

Three fingers round the old silver 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad. 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole. 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet till my glass : give me one kiss : 

My own sweet Alice, we must die ; 
There's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by and by. 
There's somewhat flow's to us in life, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, 

That we may die the self-same day. 

Have I not found a happy earth } 

I least should breathe a thought of 
pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I'd almost live my life again' 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 

And once again to woo tliCe mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 



To be the long and listless boy 

Late-left an orphan of the squire. 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire : 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so long, 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin song. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 

In lirry woodlands making moan ; 
But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant 
dream — • 
Still hither,thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses iu the stream. 

Or from tbe bridge I lean'd to hear 

The miildam rushing down with noise, 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and poise. 
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones. 
Or those three chestnuts near, that 
hung 

In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that, 

When after roving in the woods 
('Twas April then), I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their 
buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 

And on the sicrj^e, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you, 

But angled in the higher pool. 

A love-song I had somewhere read. 

An echo from a measured strain. 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long, 

With weary sameness in the rhymes, 
The phantom of a silent song. 

That went and came a thousand 
times. 

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 
I watch'd the little circles die ; 

They past into the level flood, 

And there a vision caught my eye : 



THE MILLER'S DA UG LITER. 



29 



The reflex of a beauteous form, 
A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, 

As when a sunbeam wavers warm 
Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, you had set. 

That morning,on the casement's edge 
A long green box of mignonette, 

And you were leaning from the 
ledge ; 
And when I raised my eyes, above 

They met with two so full and 
bright — 
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, 

That these have never lost their light. 

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 

That I should die an early death ; 
For love possess'd the atmosphere, 

And fill'd the breast with purer 
breath. 
My mother thought, What ails the boy ? 

For I was alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with joy, 

And with the certain step of man. 
I loved the brimming wave that sw^am 

Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, 
The sleepy pool above the dam. 

The pool beneath it never still, 
The meal -sacks on the whiten'd floor, 

The dark round of the dripping 
wheel, 
The very air about the door 

Made "misty with the floating meal. 

And oft in ramblings on the wold. 

When April nights began to blow, 
And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, 

I saw the village lights below; 
I knew your taper far away. 

And full at heart of trembling hope, 
From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 

The deep brook groan'd beneath the 
mill : [sits ! " 

And " by that lamp," I thought, " she 
The white chalk-quarry from the hill 

Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. 
" O that I were beside her now ! 

O will she answer if I call .'' 
O would she give me vow for vow, 

Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? " 



Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; 

And, in the pauses of the wind, 
Sometimes I heard you sing within ; 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the 
blind. 
At last you rose and moved the light, 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across Hito the night, 

And all the casement darken'd there. 

But when at last I dared to speak. 

The lanes, you know, were white with 

May, [cheek 

Your ripe lips moved not, but your 

Flush'd like the coming of the day; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy, 

You would, and would not, little one ! 
Although I pleaded tenderly, 

And you and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire : 
She wish'd me happv, but she thought 

I might have look'd a little higher ; 
And I was young— too young to wed : 

" Yet must I love her for your sake ; 
Go fetch your Alice here," she said : 

Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 

And down I went to fetch my bride : 

But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 
This dress and that by turns you tried, 

Too fearful that you should not 
please. 
I loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well ; 
And dews, that would have fall'n in 
tears, 

I kiss'd away before they fell. 

I watch'd the little flutterings. 

The doubt my mother would not see ; 
She spoke at large of many things. 

And at the last she spoke of me ; 
And turning look'd upon your face. 

As near this door you sat apart. 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart to 
heart. 
Ah, well— but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 



30 



FA TIM A. 



With bridal flowers — that I may seem, 
As in the nights of old to lie 

Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, 
While those full chestnuts whisper 

by. 

It is the miller's daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 

That trembles at her ear : 
For hid in ringlets day and night, 
I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty, dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat' against me. 
In sorrow and in rest : 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace. 
And all day long to fall and rioe 

Upon her balmy bosom. 

With her laughter or her sighs, 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 



A trifle, sweet! which true love spells — 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells, 

For all the spirit is his own. 
So, if I waste words now, in truth. 

You must blame Love. His early 
rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in youth, 

And makes me talk too' much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone. 

Like mine own life to me thou art. 
Where Past and Present, wound in one. 

Do make a garland for the heart : 
So sing that other song I made. 

Half-anger'd with my happy lot. 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

I found the blue Forget-me-not. 

Love that hath us in the net, 
Can he pass, and we forget "i 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 
Even so. 



Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love .-* for we forget : 
Ah, no! no ! 



Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True 
wife, [entwine ; 

Round my true heart thine arms 
My other dearer life in life, 

Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
Untouch'd with any shade of years, 

May those kind eyes forever dwell ! 
They have not shed a many tears, 

Dear eyes, since first I' knew them 
well. 

Yet tears they shed : they had their 
part 

Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, 
The still affection of the iieart 

Became an outward breathing type. 
That into stillness past again. 

And left a want unknown before ; 
Although the loss that brought us pain, 

That loss but made us love the more, 

With farther lookings on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss. 

The comfort, I have found in thee : 
But that God bless thee, dear — who 
wrought 

Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought, 

With blessings which no words can 
find. 
Arise, and let us wander forth. 

To yon old mill across the wolds ; 
For look, the sunset, south and north, 

Winds all the vale in rosy folds, 
And fires your narrow casement glass, 

Touching the sullen pool below; 
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 



FATIMA. 

O Love, Love, Love! O withering 

might ! 
O sun, that from thy noondcy height 



(ENONE. 



31 



Shudderest when I strain my sight, 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 
Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
Lo, parch "d and wither'd, deif and 

blind, 
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers : 
1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
I roird among the tender fioweis : 
I crush'd them on my breast, my 

mouth : 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his 
name, [came 

From my swift blood that went and 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 

Love, O fire ! once he drew 
With one long kiss my whole soul 

thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He Cometh quickly ; from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, 

blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down -deepening from swoon to 

swoon, 
Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 

The wind sounds like a silver wire 
And from beyond the noon a fne 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light. 
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce 

delight. 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently, 
All naked in a sultry sky. 
Droops blinded with his shining eye : 
I will possess him or will die. 

1 will grow round him in his place. 
Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. 



CENONE. 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
The swimming vapor slopes athwart 

the glen, 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from 

pine to pine, 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either 

hand 
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway 

down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below 

them roars 
The long brook falling thro' the clov'n 

ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
Stands up and takes the morning: but 

in front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel. 
The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the 

hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round 

her neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in 

rest. [vine- 

She, leaning on a fragment twined with 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- 
shade 
Sloped downward to her seat from the 

upper cliff. 



" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the 

.hill: 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass: 
The lizard, with his shadow on the 

stone. 
Rests like a shadow, and the cicala 

sleeps. 
The purple flowers droop : the golden 

bee 
Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears my heart ol 

love, 



32 



CFMOXF.. 



My heart is breaking, and my eyes are 

dim, 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida. 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O 

Caves 
That house the cold crown'd snake ! O 

mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River-God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build 

up all 
^ My sorrow with my song, as yonder 

walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gather'd shape : for it may 

be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper 

woe. 

" O mother Ida, many fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
I waited underneath the dawning hills, 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, 
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain 

pine : 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, 

white-hooved, 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Far-off the torrent call'd me from the 
cleft : 

Far up the solitary morning smote 

The streaks of virgin snow. With 
down-dropt eyes 

I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 

Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leop- 
ard skin 

Droop'd from his shoulder, but his 
sunny hair 

Cluster'd about his temples like a 
God's ; 

And his cheek brighten'd as the foam- 
bow brightens 

When the wind blows the foam, and 
all my heart 

When forth to embrace him coming ere 
he came. 



" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milk- 
white palm 
Discl(5ted a fruit of pure Hesperian 

gold. 
That smelt arabrosially, and while I 

look'd 
And listen'd, the full-flowing river of 

speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd CEnone, my own soul, 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind 

engrav'n 
" For the most fair," would seem to 

award it thine. 
As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married 

brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

He prest the blossom of his lips to 
mine. 

And added, * This was cast upon the 
board, 

When all the full-faced presence of the 
Gods 

Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; where- 
upon 

Rose feud, with question unto whom 
'twere due : 

But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 

Delivering that to me, by common 
voice 

Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 

Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 

This meed of fairest. Thou, within the 
cave 

Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest 
pine, 

Mayst well behold them unbeheld, un- 
heard 

Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of 
Gods.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery 

cloud 
Had lost his way between the piny sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower 

they came, 



(ENON-E. 



33 



Naked they came to that smooth- 
swarded bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake like 

fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose, 
And overhead the wandering ivy and 

vine, 
This way and that, in many a wild festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled Lo-ighs 
AVith bunch and berry and dower iluo' 
and thro,* 

'• O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloudy 

and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant 

dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to 

whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that 

grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind'the 

Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris 

made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overthrowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, 'from 

many a vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign clothed 

with corn. 
Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and 

toll. 
From many an inland town and haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing 

citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest 

towers.' 

" O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
iStill she spake on and still she spake 

of power, 
' Which in all action is the end of all ;- 
Power fitted to the season ; wisdom 

bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all 

neighbor crowns 
Alliance and allegi.ince, till thy hand 



Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon 

from me, 
From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to 

thee king-born, 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king- 

born, 
Should come most welcome, seeing 

men, in po.ver 
Only, are likestgods, who have attain'd 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
in knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

'• Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly 
fruit 
[ Out at arm's-length, so much the 
' thought of power 

[ Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where 
! she stood 

j Somewhat apart, her clear and bared 
I limbs 

j O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed 
I spear 

Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
I The while, above, her lull and earnest 

eye 
I Over her snow-cold breast and angry 
I cheek 

Kept watch, waiting decision, made 
reply. 

" 'Self - reverence, self-knowledge, 
se.i-contiol. 

These three alone lead life to sover- 
eign power. 

Yet not lor power (power of herself 

Would come uncall'd for), but to live 
by law. 

Acting the law we live by without fear ; 

And, because right is right, to follow 
right 

Were wisdom in the scorn of conse- 
quence.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with 

gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I 

am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 



34 



CENONE. 



Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of 

fair, 
Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee 

sure 
That I should love thee well and cleave 

to thee, 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, 
Siiall strike within thy pulse, like a 

God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of 

shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance 

grow 
Sinew d with action, and the full-grown 

will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceased. 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O 

Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me 

not, 
Qr hearing would not hear me, woe is 

m£ r 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Pa- 

phian wells. 
With rosy slender fingers backward 

drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her 

deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid 

throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her 

light foot 
Shone rosy white, and o'er her rounded 

form 
Between the shadows of the vine 

bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she 

moved. 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 
The herald of her triumph, drawing 
nigh 



Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise 

thee 
The fairest and most loving wife in 

Greece.' 
She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my sight 

for fear : 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised his 

arm, 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
And I was left alone wiihin the bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone, 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

" Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not 
fair ? 

My love hath told me so a thousand 
times. 

Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 

When I passed by, a wild and wanton 
pard, 

Eyed like the evening star, with play- 
ful tail 

Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most 
loving is she } 

Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that 
my arms 

Were wound about thee, and my hot 
lips prest 

Close, close to thine in that quick-fall- 
ing dew 

Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn 
rains 

Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 

Tliey came, they cut away my tallest 
pines, 

My dark tall pines, that plumed the 
craggy ledge 

High over the blue gorge, and all be- 
tween 

The snowy peak and snow-white cat- 
aract 

Foster'd the 'callow eaglet — from be- 
neath 

Whose thick mysterious bows in the 
dark morn 

The panther's roar came muffled, while 
I sat 

Low in the valley. Never, never more 



CENONE, 



35 



Shall lone CEnone sec the morning mist i And shadow all my soul, that I may 



Sweep thro' them ; never see them i 
overlaid 

With narrow moon-lit slips of silver 
cloud, 

Between the loud stream and the trem- 
bling stars. 



Thou weighest heavy on the heart 

within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. 



"O mother, hear me yet before I 
die 

'O mother, hear me yet before I I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
die. Do shape themselves within me, m»ore 

and more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the 

inmost hills, 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly 

see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a 
mother 



I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd 

folds, 
Among the fragments tumbled from 

the glens. 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with 

her, 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Pele'ian banquet-hall. 
And cast the golden fruit upon the 

board, 
And bred this change ; that I might 

speak my mind. 
And tell her to her face how much I 

hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and 

men. 



" O mother, hear me yet before I 

die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand 

times; 
In this green valley, under this green 

hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this 

stone ? 
Seal'd it with kisses .'' water'd it with 

tears t 
O happy tears, and how unlike to 

these ! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see 

my face ? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear 

my weight .? 

death, death, death, thou ever-float- 

ing cloud, 
There are enough unhappy on this 

earth, 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to 

live : 

1 pirav thee, pass before mv light of 

life 



Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder 

comes 
Across me: never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's 

eves ! 



" O mother, hear me yet before I 

die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come 

to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of 

Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise 

and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come 

forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she 

savs 
A lire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I 

know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and 

day. 
All earth and air seem only burning 

fire. 



36 



TO 



THE SISTERS. 

We were two daughters of one race : ' 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

She died : she went to burning flame : 
She mix'd her ancient blood with 
shame. 
The wind is howling in turret and 
tree. 
Whole weeks and months, and early 

and late. 
To win his love I lay in wait : 
O the Earl was fair to see ! 



I made a feast ; I bade him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and 
tree. 
And after supper, on a bed, 
Upon my lap he laid his head: 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 



I kiss'd his eyelids into rest : 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and 
tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell. 
But I loved his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I rose up in the silent night: 
I made my dagger sharp and bright, 
The wind is raving in turret and 
tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew. 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and 
thro'. 
O the Earl was fair to see ! 



I curl'd and comb'd his comely head. 
He look'd so grand when he was 
dead. 



The wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet. 
And laid him at his mother's feet 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 



TO 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 

I SEND you here a sort of allegory, 

(For you will understand it) of a 
soul, 

A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 

A spacious garden full of flowering 
weeds, 

A glorious Devil, large in heart and 
brain. 

That did love Beauty, only (Beauty 
seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind,) 

And Knowledge for its beautv ; or if 
Good, 

Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge 
are three sisters 

That dote upon each other, friends to 
man, 

Living together under the same roof, 

And never can be sunder'd without 
tears, 

And he that shuts Love out, in turn 
shall be 

Shut out from Love, and on her thresh- 
old lie 

Howling in outer darkness. Not for 
this 

Was common clay ta'en from the com- 
mon earth, 

Moulded by God, and temper'd with 
the tears 

Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



37 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure- 
house, 
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " O Soul, make merry and 
carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag - platform, smooth as 

burnish'd brass, [bright 

I chose. The ranged ramparts 

From level meadow-bases of deep grass 

Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or 
shelf 
The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And *' while the world runs round and 
round," I said, 
" Reign thou apart, a quiet king, 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stead- 
fast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 

To which my soul made answer readily : 

" Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for 
me. 
So royal-rich and wide." 

* * * * * . 

Pour courts I made. East, West and 
South and North, 
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted 
forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there 
ran a row 
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty 
woods, 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 

That lent broad verge to distant lands, 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where 
the sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 



From those four jets four currents in 

one swell [low 

Across the mountain stream'jd be- 

In misty folds, that floating as they fell 

Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on every peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

/ 

So that she thought, "And who shall 

gaze upqn 

My palace with unblinded eyes, . 

While this great bow will waver in the 

sun. 

And that sweet incense rise ? " 

For that sweet incense rose and never 
fail'd, [higher, 

And, while day sank or mounted 
The light aerial gallery, golden rail'd, 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd 
and traced, [fires 

Would seem slow-flaming crimson 
From shadow'd grots of arches inter- 
laced. 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was. 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul 
did pass, 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the 

palace stood. 

All various, each a perfect wV ^le 

From living Nature, fit for every mood 

And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green 
and blue, 
Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 
Where with puff'd cheek the belted 
hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn." , 



38 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



One seem'd all dark and red, — a tract 
of sand, 
And some one pacing there alone, 
Who paced forever in a glimmering 
land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry 
waves. [fall 

You seem'd to hear them climb and 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellow- 
ing caves. 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain. 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding 
low. 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry 

toil, [Behind 

In front they bound the sheaves. 

Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, 

And hoary to the wind. 

And one, a foreground black with stones 
and slags, 
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the 
scornful crags, 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home, — gray 
twilight pour'd 
On dewy pastures, dewy trees. 
Softer than sleep, — all things in order 
stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape 
fair, 
As fit for every mood of mind, 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, 
was there, 
Not less than truth design' d. 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, 
In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 



Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. 
Cecily ; 
An angel looked at her. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and 
eyes 
That said, We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 

In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Aval on, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand, against his ear, 

To list a footfall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian 
king to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 
And many a tract of palm and rice, 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly 
sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew un- 

clasp'd, [boms : 

From off her shoulder backward 

From one hand droop'd a crocus : one 

hand grasp'd 

The mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy 
thigh 
Half-buried in the Eagle's down, 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar'd town. 

Nor these alone: but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was 
there, 
Not less than life, design' d. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



39 



Then in the towers I placed great bells 

that swung, [sound ; 

Moved of themselves, with silver 

And with choice paintings of wise men 

I hung 

The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph 

strong, [mild ; 

Beside him Shakespeare bland and 

And there the world-worn Dante 

grasp'd his song, 

And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest ; 
A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his 
breast, 
From cheek and throat and chin. 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift. 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every 
land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow, 
Toil'd onward, prick' d with goads 
and stings ; 
Here play'd a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose an athlete, strong to break 
or bind 
All force in bonds that might endure, 
And here once more like some sick 
man declin'd, 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod : and those 
great bells 
Began to chime. She took her 
throne : 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 



And thro' the topmost Oriels' color'd 
flame 
Two godlike faces gazed below; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow' d Ver- 
ulam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their 
motion were 
Full -welling fountain-heads of 
change, [fair 

Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd 
In diverse raiment strange : 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, 
emerald, blue, 
Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, 
And from her lips, as morn from Mem- 
non, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone. 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd 
song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring in her feastful 
mirth. 
Joying to feel herself alive, 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible 
earth, 
Lord of the senses five ; 

Communing with herself : " All these 
are mine. 
And let the world have peace or wars 
'Tis one to me." She — when young 
night divine 
Crov>^n'd dying day with stars, 

Making sweet close of his delicious 
toils — 
Lit light in wreaths and anadems. 
And pure quintessences of precious oils 
In hollow' d moons of gems 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands 
and cried, 
" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and 
wide. 
Be flatter'd to the height. 



40 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



" O all things fair to sate my various 
eyes ! [well ! 

shapes and hues that please me 

silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dwell ! 

" O God-like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 
What time I w^atch the darkening 

droves of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

" In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient 
skin, 
They graze and wallow, breed and 
sleep; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in. 
And drives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral instinct would she 
prate. 
And of the rising from the dead. 
As hers bv right of full-accomplish' d 
Fate ; 
And at the last she said : 

" I take possession of man's mind and 
deed, 
I care not what the sects may brawl. 

1 sit as God holding no form of creed. 

But contemplating all." 



Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flash'd thro' her as ghe sat alone, 
Yet not the less held she her solemn 
mirth. 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper'd: so 
three years 
She prosper'd : on the fourth she fell, 
Like Herod, when the shout was in his 
ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 



When she would think, where'er she 

turn'd her sight. 

The airy hand confusion wrought. 

Wrote '*Mene, mene," and divided 

quite 

The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 

Fell on her, from which mood was 

born [mood 

Scorn of herself ; again, from out that 

Laughter at her self-scorn. 

" What ! is not this my place of 
strength," she said, 
" My spacious mansion built for me, 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones 
were laid 
Since my first memory ? " 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears 
of blood, 
And horrible nightmares, 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts 
of flame. 
And, with dim fretted foreheads ali, 
On corpses three-months old at noon 
she came. 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 
Or power of movement, seem'd my 
soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of 
sand ; 
Left on the shore ; that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward from 
the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry dance 
Join'd not, but stood, and standing 
saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
RoU'd round by one fix'd law. 



LADY CLARA VERB DE VERB. 



41 



Back on herself her serpent pride had 

curl'd. [hall, 

" No voice," she shriek'd in that lone 

" No voice breaks thro' the stillness of 

this world: 

One deep, deep silence all ! " 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's 
mouldering sod, 
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name ; 

And death and life she hated equally. 

And nothing saw, for her despair, 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity. 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Remaining utterly confused w ith fears, 

And ever worse with growing time. 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime : 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt 
round 
With blackness as a solid wall, * 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully 
sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walking 
slow, 
In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if it be thunder or a 

sound [cry 

Of rocks thrown down, or one deep 

Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, 

" I have found 

A new land, but I die." 

She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin. 
And save me lest I die } " 

So when four years were wholly finished, 

vShe threw her royal robes away, 
*' Make me a cottage in the vale," she 
said, 
" Where I may mourn and pray. 



" Yet pull not down my palace towers, 
that are 
So lightly, beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others 
there 
When I have purged my guilt." 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your 
name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence I 
came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that dotes on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love. 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my 

head. [blown 

Not thrice your branching limes have 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : 

a' great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 



42 



THE MA Y QUEEN. 



Indeed I heard one bitter word 
That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 

Her manners had not that repose 
Which stamps the caste of Vere de 
Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at vour door : 

You changed a wholesome heart to 
. gall, 
You held your course without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth. 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us 
bent 

The grand old gardener and his wife 
Smile at the claims of long descent. 

Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
'Tis only noble to be good. 



Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
And simple faith than Norma^i 
blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : 
You pine among your halls and 
towers : 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless 
wealth, 
But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time. 
You needs must play such pranks as 
these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate. 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, 
Pray Heaven for a human heart. 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; 

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say. 

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay. 

For I'm to Idc Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see. 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, — 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 43 



They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 

They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? 

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 

And Tm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 

And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; 

For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the jNIay. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-fiowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in tiwamps and hollows gray. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. ' 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must w-ake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see. 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 



44 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 



There's not a flower on all the hills ; the frost is on the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
When you are warm-asleep, mothei, and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light, 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget 5fOu, mother, I shall hear you when you pass. 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; 
Don't let Efhe come to see me till my grave be growing green ; 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor; 
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set 
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother ; call me before the day is born, 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call rae early, mother dear. 



CONCLUSION. 45 



CONCLUSION. 

I THOUGHT to pass awav before, and yet alive I am ; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I fine release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 

And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in; 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-w^atch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet ; 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon w^as setting, and the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll. 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all nny mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It's not for them : it's mine.' 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. 



46 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know . 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Efifie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 
And there 1 move no longer now, and there his light may shine- 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 
Forever and forever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado? 

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home — 

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — 

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon vour breast — 

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

" Courage ! " he said, and pointed 

toward the land, [ward soon." 

" This mounting wave will roll us shore- 
In the afternoon they came unto a land, 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did 

swoon, [dream. 

Breathing like one that hath a weary 
Full-faced above the valley stood the 

moon : [der stream 

And like a downward smoke, the slen- 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall 

did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a down- 
ward smoke, [did go ; 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, 
And some thro' wavering lights and 
shadows broke, [low. 
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam be- 
They saw the gleaming river seaward 
flow 



From the inner land : far off, three 

mountain-tops. 
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, ' 
Stood sunset-fiush'd : and, dew'd with 

showery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the 

woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 
In the red West : thro' mountain clefts 

the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow 

down [ing vale 

Border'd with palm, nnd many a wind- 

And meadow, set with slender galin- 

gale : 
A "land where all things always seem'd 

the same ! 
And round about the keel with faces 

pale. 
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos- 
eaters came. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



47 



Branches they bore of that enchanted 

stem, [they gave 

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof 
To each, but whoso did receive of 

them, [wave 

And taste, to him the gushing of the 
Far, far away did seem to mourn and 

rave [spake, 

On alien shores ; and if his fellow 
His voice was thin, as voices from the 

grave ; [awake. 

And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all 
And music in his ears his beating heart 

did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow 
sand, [shore ; 

Between the sun and moon upon the 
And sweet it was to dream of Father- 
land, [evermore 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the 
oar, [foam. 
Weary the wandering fields of barren 
Then some one said, " We will return 
no more " ; [home 
And ^11 at once they sang, " Our island 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no 
longer roam." 

CHORIC SONG. 

I. 

There is sweet music here that softer 

falls [grass, 

Than petals from blown roses on the 
Or night-dews on still waters between 

walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
Music that'gentlier on the spirit lies, 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes : 
Music that brings sweet sleep down 

from the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep. 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leaved 

flowers weep, [hangs in sleep. 

And from the craggy ledge "the poppy 

2. 

Why are we weigh'd upon with heavi- 
ness, [tress, 
And utterly consumed with sharp dis- 



While all things else have rest from 

weariness } [alone. 

All things have rest : why should we toil 

We only toil, who are the first of 

things, 

! And make perpetual moan, 

Still from one sorrow to another 

thrown : 
Nor ever fold our wings. 
And cease from wanderings. 
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy 
' balm : [sings, 

Nor hearken what the inner spirit 
" There is no joy but calm ! " 
I Why should we only toil, the roof and 
crown of things ? 



Lo ! in the middle of the wood. 
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the 
bud [there 

With winds upon the branch, and 
Grows green and broad, and takes no 

care, 
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
Falls, and floats adown the air. 
Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light, 
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mel- 
low. 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days. 
The flower ripens in its place. 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath 

no toil, 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 

Death is the end of life ; ah, why 

Should life all labor be .? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward 
fast. 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. What is it that will last "i 

All things are taken from us, and be- 
come [Past. 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful 

Let us alone. What pleasure can we 
have 

To war with evil } Is there any peace 



48 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 
All things have rest, and ripen toward 

the grave 
In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, dark death, 

or dreamful ease. 



How sweet it were, hearing the down- 
ward stream, 
With lialf-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder 
amber light, [the height ; 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on 
To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; 
Eating the Lotos day by day. 
To watch the crisping ripples on the 
beach, [spray ; 

And tender curving lines of creamy 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the Influence of mild-minded melan- 
choly ; [memory. 
To muse and brood and live again in 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an 
urn of brass ! 



Dear is the memory of our wedded 
lives, [wives 

And dear the last embraces of our 
And their warm tears : but all hath suf- 
fer'd change ; [are cold : 

For surely now our household hearths 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are 
strange : [trouble joy. 

And we should come like ghosts to 
Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the min- 
strel sings [Trov, 
Before them of the ten-years' war in 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten 

things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The Gods are hard to reconcile: 
'Tis hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain. 
Long labor unto aged breath, 



Sore task to hearts worn out with many 

wars [pilot-stars. 

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the 



But, propt on beds of amaranth and 
moly, [blowing lowly) 

How sweet (while warm airs lull us. 
With half-dropt eyelids still. 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river drawing 

slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave thro' the thick- 
twined vine — [falling 
To watch the emerald-color'd water 
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath 
divine ! Di"g brine, 
Only to hear and see the far-off spark- 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out 
beneath the pine. 
8. 
The Lotos blooms below the barren 
peak : [creek : 
The Lotos blows by every wiilding 
All day the wind (breathes low with 

mellov.'er tone : 
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the 

yellow Lotos-dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of 

motion we, 
RoH'd to starboarc^ roll'd to larboard, 

when the surge was seething free. 
Where the wallowing monster spouted 

his foam-fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with 
an equal mind, [reclined 

In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie 
On the hills like Gods together, care- 
less of mankind. [bolts are hurl'd 
For they lie beside their nectar, and the 
Far below them in the valleys, and the 

clouds are lightly curl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled with 

the gleaming world : 
Where thev smile in secret, looking 

over wasted lands, 
Blight and famine, plague and earth- 
quake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN: 



49 



Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and 

sinking ships, and praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music cen- 
tred in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an 

ancient tale of wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the 

words are strong; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men 

that cleave the soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest 

with enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and 

wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 

'tis whispered — down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian 

valleys dwell, [asphodel. 

Resting weary limbs at last on beds of 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet 

than toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind 

and wave and oar ; [wander more. 
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

I READ, before my eyelids dropt their 

shade, [long ago 

*' 77ie Legend of Good Womeu,''^ 

Sung by the morning star of song, who 

made 

His music heard below ; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose 
sweet breath [that fill 

Preluded those melodious bursts 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 

With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his 

art [strong gales 

Held me above the subject, as 

Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' 

my heart, 

Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In 
every land 
I saw, wherever light illumineth. 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in 
hand 
The downward slope to death. 



Those far-renowned brides of ancient 

song [ing stars, 

Peopled the hollow dark, like burn- 

And I heard sounds of insult, shame, 

and wrong, 

And trumpets blown for wars ; 

And clattering flints batter'd with clang- 
ing hoofs : [sanctuaries ; 
And I saw crowds in column'd 
And forms that pass'd at windows and 
on roofs 
Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold; heroes 
tall 

Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; 

Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with 

heated blasts [tongues of fire ; 

That run before the fluttering 

White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and 

masts. 

And ever climbing higher; 

Squadrons and squares of men in 

brazen plates, [divers woes, 

Scaffolds, still sheets of water. 

Ranges of glinwriering vaults with iron 

grates, 

And hush'd seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, 

when to land [self-same way. 

Bluster the winds and tides the 

Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level 

sand, 

Torn from the fringe of spray. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in 

pain, [strove to speak. 

Resolved on noble things, and 

As when a great thought strikes along 

the brain, 

And flut-hes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew 
down 

A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 
That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; 

And then, I know not how, 



so 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



All those sharp fancies by down lapsing 

thought [and did creep 

Streani'd onward, lost their edges, 

Roll'd on each other,rounded, smootn'd, 

and brought 

Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wandered 

far 

In an old wood : fresh-wash'd in 

coolest dew, [star 

The maiden splendors of the morning 

Shook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elm-tree boles did stoop and 

lean [neath 

Upon the dusky brushwood under- 

Their broad curved branches, fledged 

with clearest green, 

New from its silken sheath. 

The dim red morn had died, her journey 

done, 

And with dead lips smiled at the 

twilight plain, [sun, 

Half-fall'n across the threshold of tli^ 

Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead 
air, [rill ; 

Not any song of bird or sound of 
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 

Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jas- 
mine turn'd [to tree. 
Their humid arms festooning tree 
And at the root thro' lush green 
grasses burn'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, 
I knew [dawn 

The tearful glimmer of the languid 
On those long, rank, dark wood- 
walks drench 'd in dew. 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the 

green, 

Pour'd back into my empty soul 

and frame [been 

The times when I remember to have 

Joyful and free from blame. 



And from within me a clear under-tone 
Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that 
unblissful clime, 
" Pass freely thro' : the wood is all 
thine own. 
Until the end of time." 

At length I saw a lady within call, 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, stand- 
ing there ; 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
A.nd most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with 
surprise 
Froze my swift speech ; she turn- 
ing on my face 
The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

" I had great beauty ; ask thou not my 

name : 

No one can be more wise than 

destiny. [I came 

Many drew swords and died. W here'er 

I brought calamity." 

"No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair 
field [died." 

Mvself for such a face had boldly 
I answer'd free ; and turning I appeal'd 

To one that stood beside. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks 

averse. 

To her full height her stately 

stature draws ; [with a curse : 

" My youth," she said, " was blasted 

This woman was the cause. 

" I was cut off from hope in that sad 
place, 
Which yet to name my spirit 
loathes and fears : 
My father held his hand upon his face : 
I, blinded with my tears, 

" Still strove to speak : my voice was 

thick with sighs 

As in a dream. Dimly I could 

descry [wolfish eyes, 

The stern black-bearded kings with 

Waiting to see me die. 



A DRkAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



51 



" The high masts flicker'd as they lay 
afloat ; 
The crowds, the temples, waver'd, 
and the shore ; 
The bright death quiver'd at the vic- 
tim's throat; 
Touch'd ; and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward 

brow : [plunging foam, 

" I would the white cold heavy- 

Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me 

deep below, 

Then when I left my home." 

Her slow full words sank thro' the 
silence drear, [ing sea ; 

As thunder-drops fall on a sleep- 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, 
" Come here, 
That I may look on thee." 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery 

rise. 

One sitting on a crimson scarf un- 

roll'd ; [bold black eyes, 

A queen, with swarthy cheeks and 

Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, 

began : [so I sway'd 

" I govern'd men by change, and 

All moods. 'Tis long since I have 

seen a man. 

Once, like the moon, I made 

" The ever-shifting currents of the 
blood [flow. 

According to my humor ebb and 
I have no men to govern in this wood : 

That makes my only woe. 

" Nay — yet it chafes me that I could 

not bend [mine eye 

One will ; nor tame and tutor with 

That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Pry- 

thee, friend, 

Where is Mark Antony ? 

" The man, my lover, with whom I 

rode sublime [by God : 

On Fortune's neck : we sat as God 

The Nilus would have risen before his 

time 

And flooded at our nod. 



" We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, 

and lit [O my life 

Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. 

In Egypt! O the dalliance and the 

wit. 

The flattery and the strife, 

" And the wild kiss, when fresh from 
war's alarms, 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms. 

Contented there to die ! 

" And there he died : and when I heard 

my name [brook my fear 

Sigh'd forth with life I would not 

Of the other : with a worm I balk'd 

his fame. 

What else was left ? look here ! " 

(With that she tore her robe apart, 

and half [to sight 

The polish'd argent of her breast 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with 

a laugh. 

Showing the aspic's bite.) 

" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier 

found [my brows, 

Me lymg dead, my crown about 

A name forever ! — lying robed and 

crown'd, 

Worthy a Roman spouse." 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest 

range [and glance 

Struck by all passion, did fall down 

From tone to tone, and glided thro' all 

change 

Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for 

delight ; [the ground 

Because with sudden motion from 

She raised her piercing orbs, and fill'd 

with light 

The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his 
keenest darts ; [ing rings 

As once they drew into two burn- 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty 
hearts 
Of captains and of kings. 



52 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



Slowly ni}- sense undazzled. Then I 

heard [the lawn, 

A noise of some one coming thro' 

And singing clearer than the crested 

bi^d, 

That claps his wings at dawn 

" The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 

From craggy hollows pouring, 

late and soon, [the dell, 

Sound all night long, in falling thro' 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

" The balmy moon of blessed Israel 
Floods' all the deep-blue gloom 
with beams divine : 
All night the splinter'd crags that wall 
the dell 
With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sun- 
shine laves [the door 

The lawn of some cathedral, thro' 
Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 

Of sound on roof and floor 

Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd 
and tied [I, when that flow 

To wdiere he stands, — so stood 
Of music left the lips of her that died 

To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 

A maiden pure ; as when she went 

along [come light, 

P'rom Mizpeh's tower'd gate with wel- 
With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads 
the count of crimes 
With that wild oath." She ren- 
der'd answer high : 
" Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand 
times 
[ would be born and die. 

*' Single I grew, like some green plant, 

whose root [beneath, 

Creeps to the garden water-pipes 

Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower 

to fruit 

Changed, I was ripe for death. 



" My God, my land, my father, — these 
did move 
Me from my bliss of life, that Na- 
ture gave, 
Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of 
love 
Down to a silent grave. 

" And I went mourning, ' No fair He- 
brew boy [among 
Shall smile away my maiden blame 
The Hebrew mothers ' — emptied of all 

Leaving the dance and song, 

"Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 
Leaving the promise of my bridal , 
bower, [glow 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that 
Beneath the battled tower. 

" The light white cloud swam over us. 

Anon [den ; 

We heard the lion roaring from his 

We saw the large white stars rise one 

by one. 

Or, from the darken'd glen, 

" Saw God divide the night with flying 

flame, [hills. 

And thunder on the everlasting 

I heard Him, for He spake, and grief 

became 

A solemn scorn of ills. 

" When tjie next moon was roll'd into 
the sky, [my desire. 

Strength came to me that equall'd 
How beautiful a thing it was to die 

For God and for my sire ! 

" It comforts me in this one thought to 
dwell, [will ; 

That I subdued me to my father's 
Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, 

Sweetens the spirit still. 

" Moreover it is written that my race 
Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from 
Aroer [face 

On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her 
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 



MARGARET. 



53 



She lock'd her lips : she left me where 

I stood : [afar, 

" Glory to God," she sang, and past 

Thridding the sombre boskage of the 

wood. 

Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively. 

As one that from a casement leans 
his head, [denly, 

When midnight bells cease ringing sud- 
And the old year is dead. 

" Alas ! alas ! " a low voice, full of care, 

Murmur'd beside me : " Turn and 

look on me : [fair, 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call 
If what I was I be. 

" Would I had been some maiden 
'coarse and poor ! [light ! 

O me, that I should ever see the 
Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 

Do hunt me, day and night." 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope 

and trust : [tamely died ! 

To whom the Egyptian : " O, you 

You should have clung to Fulvia's 

waist, and thrust 

The dagger thro' her side." 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's 

creeping beams, [mystery 

Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the 

Of folded sleep. The captain of my 

dreams 

Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the 

dark, [last trance 

Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her 

Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of 

Arc, 

A light of ancient France ; 

Or her, who knew that Love can van- 
quish Death, [her king. 
Who kneeling, with one arm about 
Drew forth the poison with her balmy 
breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 



No memory labors longer from the deep 

Gold-mines of thought to lift the 

hidden ore [sleep 

That glimpses, moving up, than I from 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With 

what dull pain [to strike 

Compass'd, how eagerly I sought 

Into that wondrous track of dreams 

again ! 

But no two dreams are like. 

As when a soul laments, which hath 
been blest, [years, 

Desiring what is mingled with past 
In yearnings that can never be exprest 

By signs or groans or tears ; 

Because all words, tho' cull'd with 

choicest art, [sweet, 

Failing to give the bitter of the 

Wither beneath the palate, and the 

heart 

Faints, faded bv its heat. 



MARGARET. 



O SWEET pale Margaret, 

O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power, 
Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 

Of pensive thought and aspect pale, 

Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ? 
From the westward-winding flood, 
PVom the evening-lighted wood, 

From all things outward you have 
won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 
The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent cheek, 

Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound, 

Like the tender amber round, 
Which the moon about her spreadeth, 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 



54 THE BLACKBIRD.— THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 



You love, remaining peacefully, 

To hear the murmur of th : strife, 
But enter not th - toil x life. 

Your spirit is the calmed ea, 

Laid by the tu;iult of the fight. 

You are the »-venmg tar, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and 
bright : 

Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow 

light 
Float by you on the verge of night. 



What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning stars 
The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro' his prison bars ? 

Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 

The last wild thought of Chatelet, 

Just ere the fallen axe did part 

The burning brain from the true 

heart, [well ? 

Even in her sight he loved so 

4- 

A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes, 

You are not less divine. 
But more human in your moods. 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch'd with a somewhat darker 
hue. 

And less aerially blue 

But ever trembling thro' the dew 
Of dainty-woful sympathies. 



O sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and hear me 

speak : 
Tie up the ringlets on you cheek : 

The sun is just about to set. 
The arching limes are tall and shady, 
And faint, rainy lights are seen. 
Moving in the leafy beech. 



Rise from the foast of s:;rrow, lady, 
Where all day long you sit between 
J y and woe, and ./hisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn, 

Look out below your bower-eaves, 

Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn 

Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 

THE BLACKBIRD. 

O Blackbird ! sing me something well. 

While all the neighbors shoot tlec 

round, [ground, 

I keep smooth plats of fruitful 

Where thou may'st warble, eat, and 

dwell. 
The espaliers and the standards all 
Are thine ; the range of lawn and 

park : 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, 
All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the Spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the Summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue, 
Cold February loved, is dry : 
Plenty corrupts the melody 

That made thee famous once, when 
young : 

And in the sultry garden-squares. 
Now thy flute-notes are changed to 

coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning ! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue. 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are 
new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 

THE DEATH OF THE OLD 

YEAR. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 

And the winter winds are wearily sigk 

ing: 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low. 
For the old year lies a-dying. 



TO J. S. 



yb 



Old year you must not die ; 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily,- 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true true- 
love 

And the New-year will take 'em away. 
Old year you must not go ; 
So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you have seen with us, 
Old year, you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the l»rim ; 

A jollier year we shall not see. 

But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. 

And tho' his foes speak ill of him, 

He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 
We did so laugh and cry with you, 
I've half a mind to die with you. 
Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest. 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste. 
But he'll be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my 
friend, [my friend. 

And the New-year blithe and bold, 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps : the light burns low : 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you : 
What is it we can do for you } 
Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack! our friend is gone, 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 
And waiteth at the door. 



There's a new foot on the floor, 

my friend, [friend, 

And a new face at the door, my 
A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 

The wind, that beats the mountain, 
blows 

More sofdy round the open wold, 
And gently comes the world to those 

That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made. 
Or else I had not dare to flow 

In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

'Tis strange that those we lean on most. 
Those in whose laps our limbs are 
nursed, 

Fall into shadow, soonest lost : 

Those we love first are taken first. 

God gives us love. Something to love 
He lends us ; but, when love is 
grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve, 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

This is the curse of time. Alas! 

In grief I am not all unlearn'd ; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did 
pass ; 

One went, who never hath return'd. 

He will not smile — not speak to me 
Once more. Two years his chair 
is seen 

Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not been. 

Your loss is rarer ; for this star 

Rose with you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother : his mute dust 
I honor and his living worth : 

A man more pure and bold and just 
Was never born unto the earth. 



56 



TO J. S. 



I have not look'd upon you nigh, 

Since that dear soul hath fall'n 
asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, 
Drawn from the spirit thro' the 
brain, 
I wii' not oven j^reach to you, 

" Weep, weeping dulls the inward 
pain." 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She loveth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her 
will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say " God's ordinance 

Of Death is blown in every wind " ; 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun, 

And dwells in heaven half the 
night. 

Vain solace ! Memory standing near 
Cast down her eyes, and in her 
throat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth, 
How sJioidd I soothe you anyway. 

Who miss the brother of your youth } 
Yet something I did wish to say : 

For he too was a friend to me : 

Both are my friends, and my true 
breast 

Bleedeth for both : yet it may be 
That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would 
make [cease ; 

Grief more. 'Twere better I should 
Although myself could almost take 

The place of him that sleeps in 
peace. 



Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : 
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 

While the stars burn, the moons in- 
crease, 
And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 

Nothing comes to thee new or 
strange, 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. 



You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas ? 

It is the land that freemen till, 

That sober-suited Freedom chose. 
The land, where girt with friends 
or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown, 
Where Freedom broadens slowly 
down 

From precedent to precedent : 

Where faction seldom gathers head. 
But by degrees to fulness wrought. 
The strength of some diffusive 
thought [spread. 

Hath time and space to work and 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 

And individual freedom mute ; 

Tho' Power should make from land to 
land 
The name of Britain trebly great— 
Tho' every channel of the State 
Should almost choke with golden 
sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 
Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



TO J. S. 



57 



Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 
The thunders breaking at her feet : 

Above her shook the starry lights : 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and 
field 

To mingle with the human race, 
And part by part to men reveal'd 

The fulness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works, 

From her isle-altar gazing down, 

\Vho, God-like, grasps the triple forks. 
And, King-like, wears the crown : 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine, 
Make bright our days and light our 
dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes 1 



Love thou thy land, with love far- 
brought 
From out the storied Past, and used 
Within the Present, but transfused 

Thro' future time by power of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles. 
Love, that endures not sordid ends. 
For English natures, freemen, friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time. 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble 
wings. 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 

To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for 
day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 



Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 
But let her herald, Reverence, fly 
Before her to whatever sky 

Bear seed of men- and growth of minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the 
years ; 
Cut Prejudice against the grain : 
But gentle words are always gain : 

Regard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch. 
Of pension, neither count on praise : 
It grows to guerdon after-days : 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 

Not master'd by some modern term; 

Not swift nor slow to change, but 
firm : 
And in its season bring the law ; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 
With Life, that, working strongly, 

binds — 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature, also, cold and warm, 
And moist and dry devising long. 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed bv still degrees. 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that, which 

flies. 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shape in act ; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 



58 



THE GOOSE. 



A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule, 

New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air arc 
dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd, 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires, 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made, 

That we are wiser than oui sires. 

O yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth. 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridg* of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud. 
Must ever shock, like armed foes. 
And this be true, till Time shall 
close, 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and 

guilt. 
But with his hand against the hilt, 
Would pace the troubled land, like 

Peace ; 

Net less, tho-' dogs of Faction bay. 

Would serve his kind in deed and 

word, [sword. 

Certain, if knowledge bring the 

That knowledge takes the sword away — 

Would love the gleams of good that 

broke 

From either side, nor veil his eves : 

And if some dreadful need should 

rise [stroke : 

Would strike, and firmly, and one 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day. 
As we bear blossom of the dead , 
Earn wt^U the thrifty months, nor wed 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



THE GOOSE. 

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, 
Her rags scarce held together ; 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm. 
He utter'd rhyme and reason, 

'•' Here, take the goose, and keep you 
warm. 
It is a stormy season." 

She caught the white goose by the leg. 

A goose — 'twas no great matter. 
The goose let fall a golden egg 

With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the 
pelf. 

And ran to tell her neighbors ; 
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, 

And rested from her labors. 

And feeding high, and living soft, 
Grew plump and able-bodied ; 

Until the grave churchwarden dofT'd, 
The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid. 
She felt her heart grow prouder: 

But ah ! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

" A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! " 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

" Go, take the goose, and wring her 
throat, 
I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the 
cat ; 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer, 
The goose flew this way and flew that, 

And fill'd the house with clamor. 

As head and heels upon the floor 
They floundered all together, 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather ; 



THE EPIC. 



SO 



He took the goose upon his arm, 
He utter'd words of scorning ; 

" So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 
It is a stormy morning." 

The wild wind rang from park and 
plain, 

And round the attics rumbled. 
Till all the tables danced again, 

And half the chimneys tumbled. 



The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 
The blast was hard and harder. 

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder ; 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fied the danger. 

Quoth she, " The Devil take the 
goose. 
And God lOrget the stranger ! " 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS. 



(published 1842.) 



THE EPIC. 



At Francis Allen's on the Christmas- 
eve, — 

The game of forfeits done — the girls all 
kiss'd 

i>eneaih the sacred bush and past 

away— [Hall, 

'- jiarson Holmes, the poet Everard 

host, and I sat round the wassail- 

i.uwl, 

i i)en half-way ebb'd : and there we 
held a talk, 

How all the old honor had from Christ- 
mas gone. 

Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd 
games 

In some odd nooks like this ; till I, 
tired out [pond, 

With cutting eights that day upon the 

Where, three times slipping from the 
outer edge, [stars, 

I bump'd the ice into three several 

Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard 

The parson taking wide and wider 
sweeps, 

Now harping on the church-commis- 
sioners, 

Now hawking at Geology and schism; 

(Jntil I woke, and found him settled 
down 



Upon the general decay of faith 
Right thro' the world, " at home was 

little left, [none 

And none abroad : there was no anchor, 
To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt 

his hand 
On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold by 

him." 
" And I," quoth Everard, " by the was- 
sail-bowl." 
" Why yes," I said, we knew your gift 

that way 
At college : but another which you had 
[ mean of verse (for so we held it then). 
What came of that?" '■ Vou know," 

said Frank, "he burnt 
His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve 

books" — ["O, sir, 

And then to me demanding why .'' 
He thought that nothing new was said, 

or else 
Something so said 'twas nothing — that 

a truth 
Looks freshest in the fashion of the 

day : [ask. 

God knows : he has a mint of reasons: 
It pleased tne well enough." *• Nay, 

nay," said Hall, [times .^ 

" Why take the style of those heroic 
For nature brings not back the Ma;?- 

todon, 



6o 



MORTE n ARTHUR. 



Nor we those times ; and why should 

any man 
Remodel models ? these twelve books 

of mine [worth,| 

Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- | 
Mere chaff and draff, much better 

burnt " "But I," 
Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from 

this hearth, 
And have it : keep a thing, its use will 

come. 
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 
He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like 

a horse 
That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd 

my ears ; 
For I remember'd Everard's college 

fame 
When we were Freshmen : then at my 

request 
He brought it; and the poet little 

urged, [ment, 

But with some prelude of disparage- 
Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and 

aes. 
Deep-chested music, and to this result. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter 

sea ; [man, 

Until King Arthur's table, man by 
Had fall'n in Lyonness about their 

Lord, 
King Arthur : then, because his wound 

was deep. 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the 

field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren 

land. 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was 

full. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 



" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous 

knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such 

a sleep 
Thev sleeo — the men I loved. I think 

that we 
Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds, [halls 

Walking about the gardens and the 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more — but let what will 

be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till 

morn. [bur, 

Thou therefore take my brand Excali- 
Which was my pride : for thou remem- 

berest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, 

an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
Holding the sword — and how I rowed 

across [king : 

And took it, and have worn it, like a 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall l)e known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere: 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly 

bring me word." 
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee 

thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 

helm. [man. 

A little thing may harm a wounded 
Yet I thy best will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring 

thee word." 
So saying, from the ruined shrine he 

stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of 

tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient 

men. 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



6l 



Old knights, and over them the sea- 
wind sang [stepping down 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed 

rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 
There drew he forth the brand Ex- 

calibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 

moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 

ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against 

the hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond 

studs, [work 

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth 
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he 

stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift 

mind, 
In act to throw : but at the last it 

seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags. 
That whistled stiff and dry about the 

marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded 

king. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Be- 

divere : 
" Hast thou performed my mission 

which I gave .-' 
What is it thou hast seen or what 

hast heard .-' " [vere : 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 

" I heard the ripple washing in the 

reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the 

crag." 
To whom replied King Arthur, faint 

and pale : 
" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and 

thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow'd, either 

hand. 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 



As thou art lief and dear, and do the 

thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring 

me word." 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second 

time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside 

the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, 

he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 
"And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy 

note, [earth, 

Should thus be lost forever from the 
Which might have pleased the eyes of 

many men. 
What good should follow this, if this 

were done .'' 
What harm, undone } deep harm to 

disobey. 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king de- 
mand 
An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
The King is sick, and knows not what 

he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty 

breath 
And rumors of a doubt.-* but were 

this kept. 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty 

kings, -- [arms, 

Some one might show it at a joust of 
/aying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excali- 
bur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the 

Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the 

deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much h: :'()r and much fame 

were lo t-' 
So spake he, clouded with his own 

conceit. 



62 



MORTE D'ARTtTUk, 



And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the 

wounded King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 

heavily : 
*' What is it thou hast seen ? or what 

hast heard ? " [vere : 

And answer made the bold Sir Redi- 

" I heard the water lapping on the crag, 

And the long ripple washing in the 

reeds." 
To whom replied King Arthur, much 

in wrath : 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is 

me! 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what 

thou art, 
For thou, the latest left of all my 

knights. 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the pre- 
cious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 
And the third time may prosper, get 

thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my 

hands." 
Then quicklv rose Sir Bedivere, and 

ran, 
And leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd 

the sword, 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. 

The great brand [moon. 

Made lightnings in the splendor of the 
And flashing round and round, and 

whirl'd in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern 

morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter 

shock [sea. 

By night, with noises of the northern 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an 

arm 



Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and bran- 

dish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath: 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard 

or seen ? " [vere : 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 

" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 

the gems [saw, 

Should blind my purpose, for I never 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I 

die. 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal 

men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, 

wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an 

arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and bran- 

dish'd him [mere." 

Three times, and drew him under in the 

And answer made King Arthur, 

breathing hard : 
"My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I 

were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive 

my weight. 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall 

die." [rose, 

So saying, from the pavement he half 

Slowly, with pain, recliningon his arm. 

And looking wistfully with wide blue 

eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found 

not words. 
Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the 
languid hands. 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



63 



And rising bore him thro' the place 

of tombs. 
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur 

panted hard, [bed 

Like one that feels a nightmare on his 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd 

the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear 

" Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge 

to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, 

as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

cry [like a goad. 

Before. His own thought drove him 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and 

right 
The bare blackcliff clang'd round him, 

as he based 
Kis feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang [heels — 

Sharp smitten with the dint of armed 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter 

moon 
Then saw they how there hove a 

dusky barge [stern. 

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to 
Beneath them ; and descending they 

were ware [stately forms 

That all the decks were dense with 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a 

dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — 

and from tl em rose [stars, 

A cry that shiver'd to the tingling 
And, as it were one voice, an agonv 
Of lamentation, like a wink, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one 

conies, (world 

Or hath come, since the making of the 

Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me 

in the barge," [those three Queens 
And to the barge they came. There 
Put forth their hands, and took the 

King, and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 



And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands. 
And call'd him by his name, complain- 
ing loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against his 

brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face 

was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd 

moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the spring- 
ing east; 
And all his greaves and cuisses daah'd 

with drops [curls — 

Of onset; and the light and lustrous 
That made his forehead like a rising 

sun [parch'd west 

High from the dais-throne — were 
Or, clotted into points and hanging 

loose, [fringed his lips. 

Mix'd with the knightly growth that 
So like a shatter'd column lay the 

King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in 

rest, [ment. 

From spur to plume a star of tourna- 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 

charged 
Before the eves of ladies and of Kings. 
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere, 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall 

I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and 

my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are 

dead. 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance. 
And everv chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the 

light hath led 
The holy Elders v/ith the gift of mvrrh. 
But now the whole round table is 

dissolved [world ; 

Which was an image of the mighty 
And I, the last, go forth conipanionless, 
And the days darken round me, and 

the years. 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds." 



64 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



And slovvh' answer'd Arthur from the 
barge ; 
"The old order changeth, yielding 

place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt 

the world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in 

me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I 

have done 
May He within himself make pure ! 

,but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face 

again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Where- 
fore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and 

day. 
For what are men better than sheep 

or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the 

brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of 

prayer 

Both for themselves and those who 

call them friend ? _ [way 

For so the whole round earth is every 

Bound by gold chains about the feet of 

God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long 

way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a 

doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any 

snow. 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with or- 
chard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with sum- 
mer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous 
wound." 
So said he, and the barge with oar 
and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan — 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 



Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 
the flood [Bedivere 

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge 

of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died awa\-. 



Here ended Hall, and our last light, 

that long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, 

flared and fell ; 
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with 

sound. 
And waked with silence, grunted 

" Good ! " but we 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which 

he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches -here and 

there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of noth- 
ingness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized 

his work ; 
I know not : i^it we sitting, as I said. 
The cock crew loud; as at that time of 

year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for 

dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man 

ill-used, 
" There now — that's nothing ! " drew a 

little back, 
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd 

log, 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the 

flue : 
And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I 

seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming 

shores, 
Point after point ; till On to dawn, 

when dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, 
To me, methought, who waited with a 

crowd, 
There came a bark that, blowing for- 
ward, bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port; and all the people 
cried. 



TA; GARDENER'S daughter ; OR, THE PICTURES. 65 



" Arthur is come again : he cannot 

die." 
Then those that stood upon the hills 

behind [as fair " ; 

Repeated — " Come again, and thrice 
And, further inland, voices echoed — 

" Come 
With all good things, and war shall 

be no more." 
At this a hundred bells began to peal, 
That with the sound I woke, and heard 

indeed 
The clear church-bells ring in the 

Christmas morn. 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; 

OR, THE PICTURES. 
This morning is the morning of the 

day, 
When .1 and Eustace from the city 

went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter; I 

and he, [plete 

Brothers in Art ; a friendship so com- 
Portion'd in halves between us, that 

we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 
My Eustace might have sat for Her- 
cules ; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of 

breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, 

and draws 
The greattr to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little; — 

Juliet, she 
So light of foot, so Tght of spirit — oh, 

she 
To me myself, for some three careless 

moons. 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing I Know 

you not [love, 

Such touches are but embassies of 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he 

found [her. 

Empire for life ? but Eustace painted 
And said to me, she sitting with us 

the n, 



" "When will you paint like this ? " and 

I replied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half in 

jest,) 
" 'Tis not your work, but Love's. 

Love, un perceived, 
A more ideal Artist he than all, 
Came, drew your pencil from you, 

made those eyes [hair 

Darker than darkest pansies, and that 
More black than ashbuds in the front 

of March," 
And Juliet answer'd laughing, " Go 

and see 
The Gardener's daughter : trust me, 

after that. 
You scarce can fail to match his 

masterpiece." 
And up we rose, and on the spur we 

went. [quite 

Not wholly in the busy world, nor 

Beyond it, blooms the garde:i that I 

love. 
News from the humming city comes 

to it [bells j 

In sound of funeral or of marriage 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, 

you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster 

clock; [lies 

Although between it and the garden 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow 

broad stream. 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the 

oar, 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps go, 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a briden 
Crown'd with the minster towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep- 

udder'd kine, 
And all about the large lime feathers 

low, 

The lime a summer home of murmurous 

wings. [herself, 

In that still place she, hoarded in 

Grew, seldom seen : not less among 

us lived 
Her fame from lip to 1 ip. Who had not 

heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter.^ 
Where was he, 



66 THE GARDEiXER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES. 



So blunt in memory, so old at heart, 
At such a distance from his youth in 

grief, 
That, having seen, forgot ? The com- 
mon mouth 
So gross to express delight, in praise 

of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress of the 

world. [Love, 

And if I said that Fancy, led by 
Would play with flying forms and im- 
ages. 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her 

name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart 
And told me I should love. A crowd 

of hopes, 
That sought to show themselves like 

winged seeds. 
Born out of everything I heard and 

saw, 
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul ; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of 

balm [air 

To one that travels quickly, made the 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of 

thought, 
That verged upon them, sweeter than 

the dream 
Dream'd by a happy man, when the 

dark East, [morn. 

Unseen, is brightening to his bridal 

And sure this orbit of the memory 

folds 
Forever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery 

squares 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing 

wind, 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one 

large cloud 
Drew downward : but all else of Heaven 

was pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge to 

verge, 
And May with me from head to heel. 

And now, 
As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with all 

its sound, 



(For those old Mays had thrice the 

life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot 

to graze. 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the 

pathway, stood. 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor 

field, 
And lowing to his fellows. From the 

woods 
Came voices of the well-contented 

doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes 

for joy 
But shook his song together as he near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left 

and right, [hills; 

The cuckoo told his name to all the 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 
The redcap whistled ; and the nightin- 
gale [day. 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of 
And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said 

to me, 
" Hear hov/ the bushes echo ! by my life 
These birds have joyful thoughts. 

Think you they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song ? 
Or have they any sense of why they 

sing ? 
And would they praise the heavens 

for what they have .? " 
And I made answer, " Were there noth- 
ing else 
For which to praise the heavens but 

only love. 
That only love were cause enough for 

praise " 
Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read 

my thought, 
And on we went ; but ere an hour had 

pass'd, [North ; 

We reach'd a meadow slanting to the 
Down which a well-worn pathway 

courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro'' crowded lilac-ambush trimly 

pruned ; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with 

perfume, blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES. 67 



The garden stretches southward. In 
the midst 

A. cedar spread his dark-green layers 
of shade. 

The garden-glasses §hone, and mo- 
mently [lights. 

The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver 
" Eustace," I said, this wonder keeps 
the house." 

He nodded, but a moment afterwards 

He cried, " Look ! look ! " Before he 
ceased I turn'd, [there. 

And, ere a star can wink, beheld her 
For up the porch there grew an East- 
ern rose, 

That, flowering high, the last night's 
gale had caught, 

And blown across the walk. One arm 
aloft— 

Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to 
the shape — 

Holding the bush, to fix it back, she 
stood. [hair 

A single stream of all her soft brown 

Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the 
flowers [ing 

Stole all the golden gloss, and, waver- 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her 
waist — 

Ah, happy shade — and still went 
wavering down. 

But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might 
have danced [dipt. 

The greensward into greener circles, 

And mix'd with shadows of the com- 
mon ground I 

But the full day dwelt on her brows, 
and sunn'd 

Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe- 
bloom, 

And doubled his own warmth against 
her lips, 

And on the bounteoui^vave of such a 
breast [shade. 

As never pencil drew. Half light, half 

She stood, a sight to make an old man 
young. 
So rapt, we near'd the house ; but 
she, a Rose 

In roses, mingled v.'ith her fragrant toil. 

Nor heard us come, nor from her tend- 
ance turn'd 



Into the world without; till close at 

hand. 
And almost ere I knew mine own in- 
tent. 
This murmur broke the stillness of 

that air 
Which brooded round about her : 

"Ah, one rose, 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers 

cull'd, [on lips 

Were worth a hundred kisses press'd 
Less exquisite than thine." 

She look'd : but all 
Suffused with blushes — neither self- 

possess'd 
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood 

and that, 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, 
And dropt the branch she held, and 

turning, wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd 

her lips 
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer 

came, 
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, 
And moved away, and left me, statue- 
like, 
In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day, 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd 

there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's 

white star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the 

dusk. 
So home we went, and all the live- 
long way [me. 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter 
"Now," said he, "will you climb the 

top of Art. 
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet ? you, not you, — the Master, 

Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all." 
So home I went, but could not sleep 

for joy, [gloom, 

Reading her perfect features in the 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and 

o'er, 
And shaping faithful record of the 

glance 



68 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES. 



That graced the giving — such a noise 

of life [voice 

Swarm'd in tlie golden present, such a 

Call'd to nie from the years to come, 

and such 
A length of bright horizon rimm'd 

the dark. 
And all that night I heard the watch- 
men peal 
The sliding season: all that night I 

heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy 

hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all 

good, 
O'er the mute city stole with folded 

wings. 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 
Love at first sight, first-born, and heir 

to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward 

squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where 

she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me : sometimes a 

Dutch love 
For tulips; then for roses, moss or 

musk, 
To grace my city-rooms: or fruits 

and cream 
Served in the weeping elm ; and more 

and more [cheek; 

A word could bring the color to my 
A thought would fill my eyes with 

happy dew ; [each 

Love trebled life within me, and with 
The year increased 

The daughters of the year. 
One after one, thro' that still garden 

pass'd : 
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower 
Danced into light, and died into the 

shade ; 
And each in passing touch'd with some 

new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by 

day, 
Like one that never can be wholly 

known, 
Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought 



For Eustace, when I heard his deep 

" 1 will," 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, 

to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds: but 

I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her dark 

eyes 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I 

reach'd 
The v/icket-gate, and found her stand- 
ing there. 
There sat we down upon a garden 

mound. 
Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the 

third. 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both ; and over many a 

range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral 

towers. 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows : from 

them clash'd 
The bells ; we listen'd ; with the time 

we play'd ; 
We spoke of other things ; we coursed 

about 
The subject most at heart, more nei.r 

and near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling 

round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 
Then, in that time and place, I spoke 

to her. 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, 
Vet for the pleasure that I took to 

hear. 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I 

loved; 
And in that time and place slie au- 

swer'd me, 
And in the compass, of three little 

words. 
More musical than ever came in one. 
The silver fragments of a broken voice. 
Made me most happy, faltering " I am 

thine." 
Shall I cease here.' Is this enough 

to say 
i That my desire, like all strongest hopes, 



1 



DORA. 



69 



By its own energy fulfiU'd itself, 

Merged in completion ? Would you 
learn at full ^ [grades 

How passion rose thro' circumstantial 

Beyond all grades develop'd ? and in- 
deed 

I had not stayed so long to tell you all, 

But while I mused came Memory with 
sad eyes, 

Holding the folded annals of my youth ; 

And while I mused, Love with knit 
brows went by, 

And with a flying finger swept my 
lips, [given 

And spake, "Be wise : not easily for- 

Are those, who, setting wide the doors 
that bar [heart, 

The secret bridal chambers of the 

Let in the day." Here, then, my words 
have end. 
Yet might I tell of meetings, of fare- 
wells — 

Of that which came between, more 
sweet than each, 

In whispers, like the whispers of the 
leaves 

That tremble round a nightingale — in 
sighs 

Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utter- 
ance, 

Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I 
not tell 

Of difference, reconcilement, pledges 
given, 

And vows, where there was never need 
of vows, 

And kisses, where the heart on one 
wild leap [above 

Hung tranced from all pulsation, as 

The heavens between their fairy fleeces 
pale 

Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting 
stars ; 

Or while the balmv glooming, crescent- 
lit, 

Spread the light haze along the river- 
shores, 

And in the hollows ; or as once we met 

Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering 
rain 

Night slid down one long stream of 
sighing wind. 



And in her bosom bore the baby. Sleep 
But this whole hour your eyes have 

been intent 
On that veil'd picture — veil'd for what 

it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common 

day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise 

thy soul ; 
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes ; 

the time 
Is come to rise the veil. 

Behold her there. 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, 
My first, last love ; the idol of my 

youth, 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine 

age. 



DORA. 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
W^iiliam and Dora. William was his 

son, [them, 

And she his niece. He often look'd at 
And often thought " I'll make them 

man and wife." 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 
And yearn'd towards VvHlliam ; but the 

youth, because [house, 

He had been always with her in the 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, 

" My son : 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on mv knees before I 

die: 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is 

well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and 

he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora ; take her for your 

wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night 

and day, 



70 



DORA. 



For many years." But William an- 
swered short i 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old 

man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, 

and said : 
"You will not, boy! you dare to 

answer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look 

to it; [think 

Consider, William : take a month to 
And let mc have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall 

pack, 
And never more darken my doors 

again." 
But William answered madly ; bit his 

lips, [at her 

And broke away. The more he look'd 
The less he liked her : and his ways 

were harsh ; 
But Dora, bore them meekly. Then 

before 
The month was out he left his father's 

house, [fields; 

And hired himself to work within the 
And half in love, half-spite, he woo'd 

and wed ^ 

A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
Then, when the bells were ringing, 

Allan call'd 
His niece and said : " My girl, I love 

you well : 
But ]f you speak with him that was my 

son, [wife, 

Or change a word with her he calls his 
My home is none of yours. My will is 

law." [thought, 

And Dora promised, being meek. She 
" It cannot be : my uncle's mind will 

change ! " 
And days went on, and there was 

born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on 

him ; [gate. 

And day by day he pass'd his father's 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd 

him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could 

save, 



And sent it them by stealth, nor did 

they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he 

died. 
Then Dora went to Maty. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, 

and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and 

said : 
*' I have obeyed my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' 

me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's 

gone, [chose. 

And for your sake, the woman that he 
And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
You know there has not been for these 

five years 
So full a harvest : let me take the boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart 

is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. 
And bless him for the sake of him that's 

gone." 
And Dora took the child, and went 

her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a 

mound [gsew. 

That was unsown, where many poppies 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not; for none of all his 

men [child ; 

Dare tell him Dora waited with the 
And Dora would have risen and gone 

to him, 
But her heart fail'd her; and the reap- 
ers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
But when the morrow came, she rase 

and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the 

mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the 

flowers ' 
That grew about, and tied it round his 

hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's 

eye. 



DORA. 



71 



Then when the farmer pass'd into the 

field 
He spied her, and he left his men at 

work, 
And came and said : '* Where were you 

yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ! What are you 

doing here ? " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answer'd softly, " This is William's 

child I " 
"■ And did I not," said Allan, " did I 

not 



And Dora said, "My uncle took the 

boy ; [you : 

But, Mary, let me live and work with 
He says that he will never see me 

more." 
Then answer'd Mary, " This shall 

never be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on 

thyself : 
And, now I think, he shall not have 

the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and to 

slight 



Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again. His mother ; therefore thou and I will 
" Do with me as you will, but take the 

child 
And bless him for the sake of him \ 

that's gone ! " 
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman 

there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet 

you dared 
To slight it. Well— for I will take the 

boy; 
But go you hence, and never see me 

more." [aloud 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried 

And struggled hard. The wreath of 

flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her 

hands, 
And the bov's cry came to her from 

the field', 
More and more distant. She bow'd 

down her head, 
Remembering the day when first she 

came, 



And all the things that had been. She 

bow'd down 
And wept in secret; and the reapers 

reap'd, [dark. 

And the sun fell, and all the land was 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, 

and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary sav/ the 

boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in 

praise [hood. , ^. ,.....„ 

To God, that help'd her in her widow- ' come 



go 
And I will have my boy, and bring him 

home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee 

back ; 
But if he will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I will live within one 

house, 
And work for William's child, until he 

grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd 

the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peep'd 

and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's 

knees, [ariQ. 

Who thrust him in the hollows of his 
And clapt him on the hands and on the 

cheeks. 
Like one that loved him ; and the lad 

stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal that 

hung 
P'rom Allan's watch, and sparkled by 

the fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy 

beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to 

her : 
And Allan set him dowm, and Mary 

said : 
"O Father — if you let me call you 

so — 
I never came a-begging for myself, 
Or William, or this child; but now I 



72 



AUDLEY COURT. 



For Dora: take her back: she loves 
you well 

Sir, when William died, he died at 

peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he 

said, 
He could not ever rue his marrying 

me — 

1 had been a patient wife ; but, Sir, he 

said 
That he was wrong to cross his father 

thus : 
' God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may he 

never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then 

he turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I 

am ! 
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for 

you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn 

to slight 
His father's memory; and take Dora 

back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the 

room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in 

sobs : 
" I have been to blame — to blame. I 

have kiU'ci my son. 
I have kill'd him— but 1 loved him — 

my dear son. 
May God forgive me! — [ have been 

to blame. 
Kiss me, my children.'' 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him 

many times. 
And all the man was broken with re- 
morse ; 
Andd ;his love came back a hundred- 

al 
And for othree hours he sobb'd o'er 

William's child. 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together ; and as 

time [mate ; 

Went forward, Mary took another 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 



AUDLEY COURT. 

"The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, 
and not a room 

For love or money. Let us picnic 
there 

At Audley Court." 

I spoke,'whiie Audley feast 

Humm'd like a hive all round the nar- 
row quay, 

To Francis, with a basket on his arm. 

To Francis just alighted from the boat, 

And breathing of the sea. " With all 
my heart," 

Said Francis. Then v.-e shouldcr'd 
thro' the swarm. 

And rounded by the stillness of the 
beach [horn 

To where the bay runs up its latest 
We left the dying ebb that famtly 
lipp'd 

The flat red granite ; so by many a 
sweep 

Of meadow smooth from aftermath we 
reach'd 

The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'4 
thro' all 

The pillar'd dusk of sounding syc- 
amores, 

And cross'd the garden to the gar- 
dener's lodge, 

With all its casements bedded, and its 
walls 

And chimneys mufifled in the leafy vine. 
There, on a slope of orchard, Fran- 
cis laid 

A damask napkin wrought with horse 
and hound, 

Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of 
home, 

And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly 
made, 

Where quail and pigeon, lark and lev- 
eret lay. 

Like fossils of the rock, with golden 
yokes 

Imbedded and injellied; last, with 
these, 

A flask of cider from his father's vats. 

-Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat 
and eat [dead, 

And talk'd old matters over: who was 



WALKIXG TO THE MAIL. 



73 



Who married, who was like to be, and 

how 
The races went, and who would rent 

the hall : 
Then touch'd upon the game, how 

scarce it was 
This season; glancing thence, discuss'd 

the farm. 
The fourfield system, and the price of 

grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where 

we split, 
And came again together on the king 
With heated faces; till he laugh'd 

aloud ; [hung 

And, while the blackbird on the pippin 
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine 

and sang : 
"O, who would fight and march and 

countermarch, 
lie shot for sixpence in a battle-field, 
And shovell'd up into a bloody trench 
Where no one knows ? but let mc live 

my life. [desk, 

'' O, who would cast and balance at a 

Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd 

stool. 
Till all his juice is dried, and all his 

joints 
Are full of chalk ? but let me live my 

life 
" Who'd serve the state ? for if I 

carved my name j 

Upon the cliffs that guard my native \ 

land, [sands ; I 

T might as well have traced it in the 
The sea wastes all : but let me live my 

life. 
" O, who would love } I woo'd a 

woman once, [wind, 

But she was sharper than an eastern 
And all my heart turn'd from her, as a 

thorn 
Turns from the sea : but let me live 

my life." 
He sang his song, and I replied with 

mine: 
T found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir 

Robert's pride, 
His books — the more the pity, so I 

said — 



Came to the hammer here in March — 

and this — 
I set the words, and added names I 

knew. 
*' Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and 

dream of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is 

mine. |arm ; 

*' Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's 

Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, 

For thou art fairer than all else that is. 

" Sleep, breathing health and peace 

upon her breast : 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against 

her lip: 
I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn. 
" I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the 

dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrej-, love, and dream 

of me » 
So sang we each to either, Francis 

Hale, [bay, 

The farmer's son who lived across the 
My friend ; and I, that having where- 
withal. 
And in the fallow leisure of my life, 
Did what I svould : but ere the night we 

rose 
And sauntered home beneath a moon, 

that, just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reachVl 
The limit of the hills ; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming 

quay. 
The town was hush'd beneath us : 

lower down 
The bay was oily-calm; the harbor- 
buoy 
With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at 

heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh 
the meadows look 
Above the river, and but a month ago, 



74 



WALKING ro THE MAIL. 



The whole hillside was redder than a 

fox , 
Is yon plantation where this by-way 

joins 
The turnpike ? 

James. Yes. 

John. And when does this come by ? 

ya?nes. The mail ? At one o'clock. 



John. 



What is it 



James. A quarter to. 

John. Whose house is that I see? 

No, not the County Member's with the 

vane; [half 

Up higher with the yewtree by it, and 

A score of gables 

James That? Sir Edward Head's : 

But he's abroad: the place is to be 

sold. 

John. O, his. He was not broken. 

James. No, sir. he, 

Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood 

That veil'd the world with jaundice, 

hid his face 
From all men, and commercing with 

himself, * 
He lost the sense that handles dailv 

life— 
That keeps us all in order more or 
less — [change. 

And sick of home went overseas for 
John. And whither ? 
James. Nay, who knows ? he's here 
and there. 
But let him go ; his devil goes with him. 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky 
Dawes. 
John. What's that ? 
James. You saw the man — on Mon- 
day, was it ? — 
There by the humpback'd willow ; half 

stands up 
And bristles ; half has fall'n and made 

a bridge ; 
And- there he caught the younker tick- 
ling trout — 
Caught in Jlagrante — what's the Latin 

word ?— 
Delicto : but his house, for so they say, 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that 

shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at 
doors. 



And rummaged like a rat : no servant 

stay'd : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds and 

chairs, 

And all his household stuff : and with 

his boy [tilt, 

Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the 

Sets out, and meets a friend who hails 

him. " What ! 
You're flitting!" "Yes, we're flitting," 

says the ghost, 
(For they had pack'd the thing among 

the beds,) 

'* O well," says he, "you flitting with us 

too— ' [again." 

Jack, turn the horses' heads and home 

John. He left his wife behind ; for 

so I heard. 
James. He left her, yes. I met my 
lady once : 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as 
crabs. 
John. O yet but I remember, ten 
years back — 
'Tis now at least ten years — and then 
she was — [thing % 

You could not light upon a sweeter 
A body slight and round, and like a 
pear [foot 

In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a 

skin 
As clean and white as privet when it 
flowers. 
James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and 
they that loved [dog. 

At first like dove and dove were cat and 
She was the daughter of a cottager, 
Out. of her sphere. What betwixt 

'shame and pride. 
New things and old, himself and her, 

she sour'd 
To whafshe is : a nature never kind ! 
Like men, like manners : like breeds 

like, they say. 
Kind nature is the best * those manners 
j next 

i That fit us like a nature second-hand ; 
! Which are indeed the manners of. the 
I great. 

I John. But I had heard it was this 
i bill tha^. past, 



EDWIN MORRIS ; GR, THE LAKE. 



75 



And fear of change at home, that drove 

him hence. 
Jcmies. That was the last drop in 

his cup of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff 

brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have 

seen him wince 
As from a venomous .thing : he thought 

himself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest -a 

cry 
Should break his sleep b_y night, and 

his nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs ; but, sir, 

you know 
That these two parties still divide the 

world — 
Of those that want, and those that have : 

and still 
The same old sore breaks out from age 

to age 
With much the same result. Now I 

myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I 

would. 
I was at school — a college in the 

South : 
There lived a flayliint near ; we stole 

his fruit. 
His hens, his eggs ; but there was law 

for us : 
We paid in person. He had a sow, 

sir. .She, [tent, 

A'ith meditative grunts of much con- 
Lay great vv'ith pig, wallowing in sun 

and mud. 
By night we dragged her to the college 

tower 
F"rom her warm bed, and up the cork- 
screw stair 
With hand and rope we haled the 

groaning sow, 
And on the leads wc kept her till she 

pigg'd. ^ [sow, 

Large range of prospect had the mother 
And but for daily loss of one she loved. 
As one by one we took them — but for 

this— 



As never sow was higher in this world — 
Might have been happy : but what lot 

is puie ? 
We took them all, till she v/as left 

alone 
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, 
And so returned unfarrow'd to her sty. 
yoAn. They found you out } 
James. Not thev. 

John. Well— after all— 

What know we of the secret of a man .'' 
His nerves were wrong. What ails us, 

who are sound, 
That we should mimic this raw'fool th« 

world, 
Which charts us all in its coarse blacks 

or whites, 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm. 
As cruel as a school-boy ere he grows 
To Pity — more from ignorance than 

will. 
But put your best foot forward, or I 

fear 
That we shall miss the mail : and here 

it comes 
With five at top : as quaint a four-in- 
hand 
As you shall see — three piebalds and a 

roan. 



EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE 
LAKE. 

O ME. my pleasant rambles by the 
lake. 
My sweet, wild, fresh three-quarters of 

a year, 
My one Oasis in (he dust and drouth 
Of city life ; I was a sketcher then : 
See here, my doing : curves of moun- 
tain, bridge. 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 
When men knew how to build, upon a 
rock, 
j With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : 
And here, new-comers in an ancient 
hold, [aires. 

New-comers from the Mersey, million- 
Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chim- 
neyed bulk 
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of 
bowers. 



76 



EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 



O me, my pleasant rambles by the 

lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward 

Bull 
The curate ; he was fatter than his 

cure. 

But Edwin Morris, he that knew the 

names, 
Long learned names of agaric, moss, 

and fern, 
Who forged a thousand theories of the 

rock^ 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, 

to swim, 
Who read me rhymes elaborately good, 
His own — I call'd him Crichton, for 

he seem'd 
All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. 

And once I ask'd him of his early 

life, 
And his first passion ; and he answer'd 

me ; 
And well his words became him : was 

he not 
A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers 1 Poet-like he 

spoke. 

" My love for nature is as old as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon* to 

that, 
And three rich sennights more, my 

love for her. 
My love for Nature and my love for her, 
Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the 

sun. 
And some full music seem'd to move 

and change 
With all the varied changes of the 

dark. 
And either twilight and the day be- 
tween ; 
For daily hope fulfrU'd, to rise again 
Revolving toward fulfilment, made it 

svv'eet 
To walk, to sit. to sleep, to breathe, to 

wake." 



Or this or something like to this he 
spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward 
Bull: 

" I take it, God made the woman foi 

the man. 
And for the good and increase of the 

world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well, 
To' have a dame indoors, that trims us 

up. 
And keeps us tight ; but these unreaf 

ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and 

indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid 

stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for th< 

man, 
And for the good and increase of tha 

world." 

" Parson," said I, " you pitch the 

pipe to a low : 
But I have sudden touches, and can 

run 
My faith beyond my practice into his: 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce hear other music : yet say on. 
What should one give to light on such 

a dream ? " 
I ask'd him half-sardonicallv. 

«' Give 1. 
Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a 

light 
Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy 

cheek ; 
*' I would have hid her needle in my 

heart, 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin : my ears could 

hear 
Her lightest breaths : her least remark 

was worth 
The experience of the wise. I went 

and came ; 
Her voice fled always thro' the sum- 
mer land ; 
I sj)oke her name alone. Thrice-happy 

days I 



EDWIN MORRIS ; OR, THE LAKE. 



77 



The flower of each, those moments 

when we met, 
The crown of all, we met to part no 

more." 

Were not his words delicious, I a 
beast 

To take them as I did ? but something 
jarr'd; 

Whether he spoke too largely ; that 
there seem'd 

A touch of something false, some self- 
conceit, 

Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it was, 

He scarcely hit my humor, and I said : 

" Friend Edwin, do not think your- 
self alone [me. 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to 
As in the Latin song I learnt at school 
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right 
and left ? [vein : 
But you can talk : yours is a kindly 
I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as 

much within ; 
Have, or should have, but for a thought 

or two, 
That like a purple beech among the 

greens 
Looks out of place : 'tis from no want 

in her : 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, 
Or somethmg of a wayward modern 

mind 
Dissecting passion. Time will set me 
right." 

So spoke I knowing not the things 
that were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward 
Bull: 

" God made the woman:for the use of 

man. 
And for the good and increase of the 

world." 
And I and Edwin laugh'd; and now we 

paused 
About the windings of the marge to 

hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy 

holms [left 

And alders, garden-isles ; and now we 



The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Delighted with the freshness and the 
sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on their 

crags, 
My suit had wiiher'd, nipt to death by 

him 
That was a God, and is a lawyer's 

clerk, 
The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. 
'Tis true, we met ; one hour I had, no 

more : \siiit, 

She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous 
The close " Your Letty, only yours " ; 

and this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly mist 

of morn 
Clung to the lake, I bloated over, ran 
My craft aground, and heard with beat- 
ing heart 
The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelv 

ing keel : 
And out I stept, and up I crept ; she 

moved, 
Like Proserpin.e in Enna, gathering 

fiowers : 
Then low and swee't I whistled thrice ; 

and she, 
She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore 

faith, I breathed 
In some new planet : a silent cousin 

stole [cried, 

Upon us and departed : " Leave," she 
" O leave me ! " " Never, 'dearest, 

never : here 
I brave the worst " : and while we stood 

like fools 
Embracing, all at once a score of pugs 
And poodles yell'd within, and out they 

came 
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. 

"What, with him!" 
"Go" (shriird the cottonspinning 

chorus) " him ! " 
I choked. Again they shriek'd the 

burthen " Him ! " 
Again with hands of wild rejection 

*^Go!— 
Girl, get you in ! " She went — and in 

one month 



7S 



ST. SIMEON STVLITES. 



They wedded her to sixty thousand 

pounds, 
To lands in Kent and messuages in 

York, 
And slight Sir Robert with his watery 

smile 
And educated whisker. But for me, 
They set an ancient cre(^itor to work : 
It seems I broke a close with force and 

arms : [1-^ing 

There came a mystic token from the 
To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! 
I read, and fled by night, and flying 

turn'd : 
Her taper glimmer 'd in the lake below : 
I turn'd once more, close-button'd to 

the storm ; 
So left the place, left Edwin, nor have 

seen 
Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared 

to hear. [ago 

Nor cared to hear ? perhaps : yet long 

I have pardon'd little Letty : not indeed, 

It may be, for her own dear sake but 

this. 
She seems a part of those fresh days 

to me; 
For in the dust and drouth of London 

life [lake. 

She moves among my visions of the 
While the prime swallow dips his wing, 

or then 
While the gold-lily blows, and overhead 
The light cloud smoulders on the sum- 
mer crcio". 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

Altiio I be the basest of mankind, 

From scalp to sole one slough and 
crust of sin. 

Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce 
meet 

For troops of devils, mad with blas- 
phemy, 

I will not cease to grasp the hope I 
hold 

Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn, and 
sob. 

Battering the gates of heaven with 
Storms of prayer, 



Have mercy, Lord, and take away my 

sin. ' [God, 

Let this avail, just dreadful, mighty 

This not bs all in vain, that thrice ten 

years, 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman 

pangs, 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and 

cold. 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous 

throes and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the 

cloud, 
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and 

sleet, and snow ; 
And I had hoped that ere this period 

closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into 

thy rest, 
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe and 

the palm. [breathe, 

O take the meaning, Lord : I do not 

Not whisper any murmur of complaint. 

Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, 

v.'ere still 
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold^. to 

bear, 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, 

that crush'd 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at the 

first, 
For I was strong and hale of body 

then ; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt 

away, 
Would chatter with the cold, and all 

my beard 
Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the 

moon, 
I drown'd the whoopings of the owl 

with sound 
Of pious hyms and psalms, and some- 
times saw [sang. 
An angel stand and watch me, as I 
Now am I feeble grown ; my end draws 

nigh ; 
I hope my end draws nigh : half-deaf 

I am,' 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



19 



So that I scarce can hear the people 

hum 
About the column's base, and almost 

blind, 
And scarce can recognize the fields I 

know ; 
And both my thighs are rotted with 

the dew ; 
Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry, 
While my stiff spine can hold my weary 

head, 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from 

the stone, 
Have mercy, mercy : take away my sin. 
O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my 

soul, 
Who may be saved ? who is it may be 

saved ? 
Who may be made a saint, if I fail 

here ? 
Show me the man hath suffer'd more 

than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one 

death ? [fied, 

For either they were stoned, or cruci- 
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or 

sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die 

here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life of 

death. [way 

Bear witness, if I could have found a 
(And heedfuily I sifted all my thought) 
iviore slowly-painful to subdue this 

home 
Of sin, mv flesh, which I despise and 

hate, ' 
I had not stinted practice. O my God. 

For not alone this pillar-punishment, 
Not this alone I bore : but while I lived 
In the white convent down the valley 

there, 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The rope that haled the buckets from 

the well, 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the 

noose ; 
And spake not of it to a single soul, 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all 
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More 

than this 



I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest 

all. 
Three winters, that my soul might 

grow to thee, 
I lived up there on yonder mountain 

side. 
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged 

stones ; [mist, and twice 

Inswathed som.etimes in wandering 
Black'd with thy branding .thunder, and 

sometimes [not. 

Sucking the damps for drink, and eating 
Except the spare chance-gift of those 

that came 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and 

live : 
And they say then that I work'd 

miracles, 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst 

mankind, 
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers 

Thou, O God, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no 
Have m.ercy, mercy ; cover all my sin. 
Then, that I might be more alone 

with thee. 
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high 
Six cubits, and three years on one of 

twelve ; 
And twice three years I crouch'd on 

one that rose 
Twenty by measure ; last of all, I grew, 
Twice ten long weary, weary years to 

thi.s, 
That numbers forty cubits from the soil. 
I think that I have borne as much as 

this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a 

time, 
If I may measure time by yon slow light. 
And this high dial, which my sorrow 

crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well. 
For that the evil ones come here, and 

say, 
'■' Fall down, O Simeon : thou hast 

suffer'd long 
For ages and for ages ! " then they prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 
Perplexing me with lies ; and oft I fall, 



8o 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



Maybe for months, in such blind lethar- 

'gies, 
That Ifeaven, and Earth, and Time 

are choked. 

But yet 
Ikthink thee, Lord, while thou and all 

the saints 
Enjoy themselves in Heaven, and men 

on earth 
House in the shade of comfortable 

roofs, 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat whole- 
some food, 
And wear warm clothes, and even 

beasts have stalls, 
I 'tween the spring and downfall of the 

light, 
Bown dov.'n one thousand and two 

hundred times, 
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and 

the Saints ; 
Or in the night, after a little sleep, 
1 wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am 

wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff with 

crackling frost, 
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my 

back ; 
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck ; 
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the 

cross, 
And strive and wrestle with thee till I 

die : 
O mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. 
O Lord, thou knowest what a man I 

am ; 
A sinful man, conceived and born in 

sin : 
'Tis their own doing; this is none of 

mine; [this. 

Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for 
That here come those that worship me i* 

Ha! ha! 
They think that I am somewhat. 

What am I ? 
The silly people take me for a saint. 
And bring me offerings of fruit and 

flowers : 
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness 

here) 
Have all in all endured as much, and 

more 



Than many just and holy men, whose 

names 
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints 
Good people, you do ill to kneel to 

me. 
What is it I can have done to merit 

this! 
I am a sinner viler than you all. 
It may be I have wrought some 

miracles, 
And cured some halt and maim'd ; but 

what of that ? 
It may be, no one, even among the 

saints, 
May match his pains with mine ; but 

' what of that } 
Yet do not rise : for you may look on 

me, 
And in your looking you may kneel to 

God. 
Speak ! is there any of you halt or 

maim'd .'' 
I think you know I have some power 

with Heaven 
From my long penance : let him speak 

his wish. 
Yes, I can heal him Power goes 

forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd Ah, 

hark ! they shout 
'• St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me O my soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be 
Can I work miracles and not be saved i*- 
This is not told of any. They were 

saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved , 
Yea, crov.-n'd a saint They shout, 

" Behold a saint 1 " 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull 

chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere 

death 
Spreads more and more and more, that 

God hath now 
Sponged and n.ade blank of crimeful 

record all 
My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



8l 



The watcher on the column till the 

end ; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine 

bakes ; 
I, whose bald brows in silent hours 

become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here 

proclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Shovv'd like fair seraphs. On the coals 

I lay, 
A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my 

sleeve ; 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross; they 

swarm'd again. 
In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd 

my chest : 
They flapp'd my light out as I read : I 

saw ' [book : 

Their faces grow between me and my 
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish 

whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way 

was left, 
And by this way I 'scaped them. 

Mortify 
Your flesh, like me, with scourges and 

with thorns ; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may 

be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with 

slow steps, 
With slow, faint steps, and much ex- 
ceeding pain, 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, 

that still 
Smg in mine ears. But yield not me 

the praise : 
God only thro' his bounty hath thought 

fit, [world, 

Among the powers and princes of this 
To make me an example to mankind, 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do not 

say 
But that a time may come — yea, even 

now, 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the 

thTCshold stairs 
Of life— I say, that time is at the doors 



When you may worship me without re- 
proach ; 

For I will leave my relics in your land, 
And you may carve a shrine about my 

dust. 
And burn a fragrant lamp before my 

bones. 
When I am gather'd to the glorious 

saints. 
While I spake then, a sting of 

shrewdest pain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloud- 
like change. 
In passing, with a grosser film made 

thick 
These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! 

the end ! 
Surely the end ! What's here ? a shape, 

a shape, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel there 
That holds a crown.!* Come, blessed 

brother, come- 
I know thy glittering face. I waited 

long; ' 
My brows are ready. W'hat ! deny it 

now ? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch 

it. Christ ! 
'Tis gone : 'tis here again : the crown ! 

the crown ! 
So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me. 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, 

and frankincense. 
Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sv»'eet saints : 

I trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet 

for Heaven. [God, 

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of 

Among you there, and let him presently 

Approach, and lean a ladder on the 

shaft, 
And climbing up into my airy home, 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people ; let them 

take 
Example, pattern ; lead them to thy 

light. 



82 



THE TALKING OAIC. 



THE TALKING OAK. 

Once more the gate behind me falls; 

Once more betore my face 
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 

That stand within the chace. 

Beyond the lodge the city lies, 

Beneath its drift of smoke; 
And ah ! with what delighted eyes 

I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me burn'd, 

The love, that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself return'd ; 

To yonder oak within the field 

I 'spoke without restraint. 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 

Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart, 
And told him of my choice, 

Until he plagiarized a heart. 
And answer'd with a voice. 

Tho' what he whisper'd, under Heaven 
None else could understand ; 

I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary liour ; 
'Twere well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern. 
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 

"Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name. 

If ever maid or spouse, 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs. — 

" O Walter, I have shclter'd here 

Whatever m.aiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by year, 

Made ripe in Sumner-chace : 

" Old Summers, when the monk was 
fat, 

And, issuing shorn and sleek, 
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 

The girls upon the cheek, 



" Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And numbcr'd bead and shrift, 

Bluff Harry broke into the spence, 
And turn'd the cowls adrift : 

" And I have seen some score of those 
Fresh faces that would thrive 

Vv hen his man-minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five ; 

" And all that from the town would 
stroll. 

Till that wild wind made work 
In which the gloomy brewer's soul 

Went by me, like a stork ; 

" The slight she-slips of loyal blood. 
And others, passing praise, 

Strait-laced, but all too-full in bud 
For puritanic stays : 

" And I have shadow'd many a group 

Of beauties that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop. 

Or while the patch was worn ; 

" And, leg and arm with love- knots gay, 
About me leap'd and laugh'd 

The modish Cupid of the day, ^ 
And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 

'* I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick. 

Is three times worth them all ; 

" For those and theirs, by Nature's law, 

Have faded long ago ; 
But in these latter sprhigs I saw 

Your own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gambolFd on tlw 
greens, 

A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could number five from ten. 

" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 

That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years — 

" Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made. 

So fight upon the grass : 



THE TALKING OAK. 



83 



" For as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 

I hold them exquisitely knit, 
But far too spare of flesh," 

O, hide thy knotted knees in fern, 

And overlook the chace ; 
And from thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name. 
That oft has heard my vows, 

Declare when last Olivia came 
To sport beneath thy boughs. 

" O yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holden at the town : 
Her father left his good arm-chair, 

And rode his hunter down. 

" And with him Albert came on his, 

I look'd at him with joy: 
As cowslip unto oxlip is, 

So seems she to the boy. 

" An hour had past — and, sitting 
straight 

Within the low-wheel'd chaise, 
Her mother trundled to the gate 

Behind the dappled grays. 

" But, as for her, she stay'd at home. 

And on the roof she went, 
And down tlie way you use to come 

She look'd with discontent. 

" She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf; 
She left the new piano shut : 

She could not please herself. 

" Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 

"A light wind chased her on the wing, 
And in the chase grew wild, 

As close as might be would he cling 
About the darling child : 

" But light as any wind that blows 

So fleetly did she stir, 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and 
rose. 

And turn'd to look at her. 



'' And here she came, and round mc 
play'd, 
And sang to me the whole 
; Of those three stanzas that you made 
i About my 'giant bole ' ; 

'*' And in a fit of frolic mirth 
I She strove to span my waist-, 
j Alas, I was so broad of girth, 
I could not be embraced. 

" I wish'd myself the fair young beech 
That here beside me stands. 

That round me, clasping each in each, 
She might have lock'd her hands. 

" Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as 

sweet 
As woodbine's fragile hold. 
Or when I feel about my feet 
The berried briony fold." 

O muffle round thy knees with fern, 
And shadow Sumner-chace ! 

Long may thy topmost branch discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

But tell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 
j To rest beneath thy boughs .'' 
I 
" O yes, she wander'd round and round 

These knotted knees of mine. 
And found, and kiss'd the name she 
found. 
And sweetly murmur'd thine. 

" A teardrop trembled from its source. 
And down my surface crept. 

My sense of touch is something coarse. 
But I believe she wept. 

"Then flush'd her cheek with rosy 
light. 

She glanced across the plain ; 
But not a creature was in sight : 

She kiss'd me once again. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind. 
That, trust me on my word, 

Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 
But yet my sap was stirr'd : 



81 



THE TALKING OAK. 



" And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern'd, 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turn'd. 

" Thrice-happy he that may caress 
The ringlet's waving balm — 

The cushions of whose touch may 
press 
The maiden's tender palm. 

" I, rooted here among the groves, 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 

"For ah I my friend, the days were 
brief 
Whereof the poets talk, 
When that, which breathes within the 
leaf. 
Could slip its bark and walk. 

" But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray, and branch, and stem, 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

" She had not found me so remiss ; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss 

With usury thereto." 

O flourish high, with leafy towers. 

And overlook the lea. 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers, 

But leave thou mine to me. 

O flourish, hidden deep in fern, 

Old oak, I love thee well ; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 

*• 'Tis little more ; the day was warm ; 

At last, tired out with play, 
She sank her head upon her arm, 

And at my feet she lay. 

" Her eyelids dropp'd their silken 
eaves. 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 



" I took the swarming sound of life — 
The music from the town — 

The murmurs of the drum and fife 
And lull'd them in my own. 

" Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip. 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second flutter'd round her lip 

Like a golden -butterfly ; 

"A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine ; 

Another slid, a sunny fleck. 
From head to ankle fine. 

" Then close and dark my arms I 
spread, 

And shadow'd all her rest — 
Dropt dews upon her golden head. 

An acorn in her breast. 

" But in a pet she started up, 
And pluck'd it out, and drew 

My little oakling from the cup, 
And flung him in the dew. 

" And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I' felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lilt 

His axe to slay my kin. 

" I sho k him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

O kiss him once for me. 

" O kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss. 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 

Step deeper yet in herb and fern. 
Look further thro' the chace, 

Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, 
The warmth it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetize 
The baby-oak within. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 



But thou,Vhile kingdoms overset, 
Or lapse from hand to hand, 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee. 

Nor wielded axe disjoint, 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

P'rom here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery top 
All throats that gurgle sweet 1 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! 

All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

'J'he fat earth feed thy branchy root. 
That under deeply'strikes ! 

The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 
High up, in silver spikes ! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 

But, rolling as in sleep, 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain, 

That makes thee broad and deep ! 

And hear me swear a solemn oath, 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, 

And gain her for my bride. 

And when my marriage morn may fall, 
She, Drvad-like, shall wear 

Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 
Li wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme, 
And praise thee more in both 

Than bard has honor'd beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth. 

In which the sv.-arthy ringdoves sat, 
And mystic sentence spoke ; 

And more than England honors that, 
Thy famous brother-oak. 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim, 

And far below the Roundhead rode, 
And humm'd a surly hvmn. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 

Of love that never found his earthly 

close, [breaking hearts .'* 

What sequel ? Streaming eyes and 

Or all the same as if he had not been ? 

Not so. Shall Error in the round 

of time [gart shout 

Still father Truth ? O shall the brag- 
For some blind glimpse of freedom 

work itself [law 

Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to 
System and empire ? Sin itself be found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the 

Sun? ' 
And only he, this wonder, dead, become 
Mere highway dust ! or year by year 

alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of 

himself! .[all, 

If this were thus, if this, indeed, were 

Better the narrow brain, the stony 

heart, [days. 

The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro, 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler thro' thy love ? 
O three times less unworthy ! likewise 

thou [thy years. 

Art more thro' Love, and greater than 
The Sun will run his orbit, and th*" 

Moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself 

will bring [changed to fruit 

The drooping flower of knowledge 
Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large 

in Time, [feet end. 

And that which shapes it to some pcr- 

Will some one say, then why not ill 

for good ? [that man 

Why took ye not. your pastime? To 
My work shall answer, since I knew 

the right 
And did it ; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godlike being most a 

man. [and me — 

— 'So let me think 'tis well for thee 

111 fated that I am, what lot is mine 

I Whose foresight preaches peace, my 

I heart so slow [me, 

i To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to 



S6 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 



When eyes, love-languid thro' half- 
tears, would dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon 

mine, [voice, 

Then not to dare to see ! when thy low 
Faltering, would break its syllables, to 

keep [leash. 

My own full-tuned, — hold passion in a 
And not leap forth and fall about thy 

neck, [relief !) 

And on thy bosom, (deep-desi/ed 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that 

weigh'd [soul ! 

L^pon my brain, my senses, and my 

For Love himself took part against 

himself [Love — 

To warn us off, and Duty loved of 

this world's curse, — beloved but 

hated — came [and mine, 

Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace 
And crying, " Who is this ? behold 

thy bride," 
';5he push'd me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these— 
No, not to thee, but to myself in thee : 

1 Fard is my doom and thine : thou 

knowest it all. [well to. speak. 

Could Love part thus ? was it not 

To have spoken once ? It could not 

but be well. [things good. 

The slow sweet hours that bring us all 
The slow sad hours that bring us all 

things ill, [the night 

And all good things from evil, brought 
In which we sat together and alone. 
And to the want, that hollow'd all the 

heart, [eye, 

Gave utterance by the yearning of an 
That burn'd upon its object thro' such 

tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred 

times [last, 

In that last kiss, which never was the 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived 

and died. [the words 

Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and 
That make a man feel strong in speak- 
ing truth ; [head 
Till now the dark was worn, and over- 



The lights of sunset and of sunrise 
mix'd [that paused . 

In that brief night ; the summer night, 
Among her stars to hear us ; stars that 
hung [of Time 

Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels 
Spun round in station, but the end had 
come. [nerves to rush 

O then like those, who clench their 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose, 
There — closing like an individual life — 
In one blind ci y of passion and of pain, 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death, 
Caught up the whole of love and utter 'd 

And bade adieu forever. 

Live — vet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, know- 
ing all 
Life needs for life is possible to will — 
Live happy; tend thy flowers; be 

tended by 
My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross 

thy thoughts [thou 

Too sadly for their peace, remand it 
For calmer hours to Memory's darkest 

hold. 
If not to be forgotten — not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy 

dreams, [content, 

O might it come like one that looks 
With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, 
And point thee forward to a distant 

light. 
Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart 
And leave thee freer, till thou wake re- 

fresh'd, [grown 

Then when the low matin-chirp hath 
Full choir, and Morning driv'n her 

plough of pearl [rack, 

Far furrowing into light the mounded 
Beyond the fair green field and eastern 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 

Well, you shall have that song which 

Leonard wrote : 
It was last summer on a tour in Wales : 
Old James was with me ; we that day 

had been 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 



87 



Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leon- 
ard there, 
And found him in Llamberis : then we 
crost [way up 

Between the lakes, and clamber' d half 
The counter side ; and that same song 
of his [swore 

He told me ; for I banter' d him, and 
lliey said he lived shut up within him- 
self, [days, 
.\ tongue-tied Poet in the feverous 
That, setting the how much before the 
hozo, [leech, " Give, 
Cry. like the daughters of the horse- 
Cram us with all," but count not me the 
herd ! 
To which " They call me what they 
will," he said : 
" But I was born too late : the fair new 
forms, ['ig^! 
That float about the threshold of an 
Like truths of Science waiting to be 
caught — [catcher crown'd — 
Catch me who can, and make the 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, h^ar 
These measured words, my work of 
yestermorn. [all things move : 
" We sleep and wake and sleep, but 
The Sun flies forward to his brother 
Sun ; [her ellipse ; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd in 
And humj^n things returning on them- 
selves [year. 
Move onward, leading up the golden 
" Ah, tho' the times, when some new 
thought can bud, [flower, 
Are but as poets' seasons when they 
Yet seas, that daily gain upon the shore. 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their 
march, [year. 
And slow and sure comes up the golden 
" When wealth no more shall rest in 
mounded heaps, [melt 
But smit with freer light shall slowly 
In many streams to fatten lower lands, 
And light shall spread, and man be 

liker man 

Thro' all the season of the golden year. 

" Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens 

be wrens ? [that ? 

If all the world were falcons, what of 



The wonder of the eagle were the less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden 

year. [Press ; 

" Fly happy happy sails and bear the 

Fly happy, with the mission of the 

Cross ; [ward 

Knit land to land, and blowing haven- 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear 

of toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 
" But we grow old. Ah ! when shall 

all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the 

sea, [year .'' " 

Thro' all the circle of the golden 

Thus far he flowed, and ended ; 

whereupon [swer'd James — 



Ah, folly 



mimic cadence an- 



Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away, 
Not in our time, nor in our children's 

time, [live ; 

'Tis like the second world to us that 
'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on 

Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year." 
With that he struck his staff against 

the rocks 
And broke it, — James, — you know him, 

—old, but full 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his 

feet, [woods. 

And like an oaken stock in winter 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : 
Then added, all in heat : 

" What stuff is this ! 
Old writers push'd the happy season 

back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward ; 

dreamers both : 
You most, that in an age, when every 

hour [death. 

Must sweat her sixty minutes to the 
Live on, God love us, as if the seeds- 
man, rapt [dip 
Upon the teaming harvest, should not 
His hand into the bag : but well I know 
That unto him who works, and feels he 

works, [doors." 

This same grand year is ever at the 



88 



UL YSSES. 



He spoke ; and, high above, I heard 

them blast [echo flap 

The steep slate-quarry, and the great 

And buffet round the hills from bluff to 

bluff. 



ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king, 

I>y this still hearth, among these barren 

crags, [dole 

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and 
Unequal laws unto a savage race. 
That, hoard, and sleep, and feed, and 

know not me. 
T cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees : all times I have en- 

joy'd [thos6 

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, 

and when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vext the dim sea : I am become a 

name ; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known ; cities of 

men [ernments. 

And manners, climates, councils, gov- 
Myself not least, but honor'd of them 

all; [peers, 

And drunk delight of battle with my 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
T am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch where- 

thro' [margin fades 

Gleams that untravell'd world, whose 
Forever and forever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in 

use ! [on life 

As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something 

more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard 

myself. 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge, like a sinking 

star, [thought. 

Beyond the utmost bound of human 



This is my son, mine own Telema- 

chus, [isle — 

To whom I leave the sceptre and the 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make 

mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the 

good. [sphere 

Most blameless is he, centred in the 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, 

I mine. [her sail : 

There lies the port : the vessel puffs 

There gloom the dark broad seas. My 

mariners, [and thought with me — 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought. 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and 

opposed [are old ; 

Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere 

the end, ' [done. 

Some work of noble note, may yet be 
Not unbecoming men that strove with 

Gods. [rocks : 

The lights begin to twinkle from the 
The long day wanes : the slow moon 

climbs: the deep [my friends. 

Moans round with many voices. Come, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose 

holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until 1 die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us 

down : " [Isles, 

It may be we shall touch the iiappy 
And see the great Achilles, whom we 

knew. [tho' 

Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and 
We are not now that strength which in 

old days [we a'-e, we are ; 

Moved earth and heaven; that which 
One equal temper of heroic her.rts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong 

in will ' [yield. 

! To strive, to seek, to fuid, ;uk1 not to 



LOCKSLE V HALL. 89 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn ; 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, 
Glitter like a swarm of fire -flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime 
^Yith the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; 

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek v/as pale and thinner than should be for one so young, 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me. 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — 
Ail the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — 

.Saying, " T have hid my feelings, fearing they 'should do me wrong '" ; 
Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, "I have loved thee lon^ 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glov/ing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring. 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. 



go LOCKSLE V HALL. 



Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, 
Aud our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ?-^having known me— to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day. 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with tlay. 

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force. 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 

What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed with wine. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought ; 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, 
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth I 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool ! 

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster !— Hadst thou less unworthy proved- 
Would to God— for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit ? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ? 

I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move ; 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore .? 
No— she never loved me truly : love is love forevermore. 



L CKSL E V HALL. 9 ^ 



Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poel sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 

Drug thy m.emories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, when the rain is on the roof. 

L.ikc a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, 
To thy widow'd marriage pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never." whisper'd by the phantom years, 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine .ears; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 
'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down: my latest rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of ti-te two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part. 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 

" They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt — 
Truly, she herself had suffered" — Perish in thy self-contempt ! 

Overlive it — low^er yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care ? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 

What is that wdiich I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy : w-hat is that w^hich I should do .^ 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground. 

When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels. 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. 

Can 1 but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age 1 

Make me feel the wild pulsation th t I felt before the strife. 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield. 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, 



92 LOCKSLE Y HALL. 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men ; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do : 

For I di])t into the future, far as human eye could see, 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails. 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm. 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. 

So I triumph'd, ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint. 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point: 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's 1 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore. 
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast. 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string ? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, woman's pain- 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain : 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 93 



Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ;— 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. 

Oj to burst all links of habit— there to wander far away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag. 

Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of rnind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing-space 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks. 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. 

/, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pair.s ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. 
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun— 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 



94 



GODIVA. 



Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow j 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 



GODIVA. 

/ waited for the train at Coventry ; 
J Jmng 7vith grooms and porters on the 
bridge, [/ shaped 

To zvatcli the three tall spires ; and there 
The citys ajteient legend into this :—- 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men,' that in the flying of a wheel 
Cry dov.-n the past, not only we, that 

prate [people well. 

Of rights and wrongs, have loved the 
And loathed to see them overtax'd ; but 

she [came, 

Did niore, and underwent, and over- 
The woman of a thousand summers 

back, [ruled 

Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who 
In Coventry: for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers 

brought [we starve ! " 

Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, 
She sought her lord, and found him, 

w^here he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone, 
His beard a foot before him, and his 

hair [tears, 

A yard behind. She told him of their 
And pray'd him, " If they pay this tax, 

they starve." [amazed. 

Whereat he stared, replying, half- 
" You would not let your little finger 

ache [die/'^said she. 

For such as these V^ — "But I would 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and 

by Paul : 
Then'fillip'd at the diamond in her ear ; 
" O ay, ay, ay, you talk ! "-^" Alas ! " 

she said, [do." 

*' But prov« m« v/hat it is I would not 



And from a heart as rough as Esau's 

hand, [the town, 

Pie answer'd, " Ride you naked thro' 
And I repeal it " ; and nodding, as in 

scorn, [dogs. 

He parted, with great strides among his 

So left alone, the passions of her 

mind, blow, 

As winds from all the compass shift and 
Made war upon each other for an hour, 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth. 
And bade him cry, with sound of 

trumpet, all ' [loose 

The hard condition; but that she would 
The people: therefore, as they loved 

her well. 
From then till noon no foot should 

pace the street, 
Xo eye look down, she passing; but 

that all [dow barr'd. 

Should keep within, door shut, and win- 
Then fled she to her inmost bower, 

and there [belt, 

Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her 
The grim Earl's gift; but ever at a 

breath [moon 

She linger'd, looking like a summer 
Half-dipt in cloud: anon she'shook her 

head, . [her knee ; 

And shower'd the rippled ringlets to 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the 

stair [beam, slid 

Stole on ; and, like a creeping sun- 
From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd 
The gatevv'ay ; there she found her 

palfrey trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 
Then she rode forth, clothed on with 

chastity: [rode, 

Tht deep air listen' d round her as shs 



THE TWO VOICES. 



And all the low wind hardly breat^ied 

for fear. [spout 

The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the 
Had cuxning eyes to see: the barking 

cur [footfall shot 

Made her cheek flame: her palfrey's 
Light horrors thro' her pulses: the blind 

walls [head 

Were full of chinks and holes ; and over- 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but 

she [saw 

Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from 

the field [wall. 

Gleam thro' the Gothic archways in the 

Then she rode back,. clothed on with 

chastity: [less earth. 

And one low churl, compact of thank- 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had 

their will, ' [head, 

Were shrivell'd into darkness in his 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, 

who wait [used ; 

On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense mis- 
And she, that knew not, pass'd: and all 

at once, [shameless noon 

With twelve great shocks of sound, the 
Was clash' d and hammer'd from a 

hundred towers, 
One after one : but even then she gain'd 
Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed 

and crown'd, 
To meet her lord, she took the tax away, 
And built herself an everlastinsr name. 



THE TWO VOICES. 

A STILL small voice spake unto me, 
" Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to be t " 

Then to the still small voice T said: 
" Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made." 

To which the voice did urge reply: 
" To-day I saw the dragon-fly 
Come from the wells where he did lie 



" An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk: from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 

" He dried his wings : like gauze they 

grew : 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew." 

I said, *' When first the world began, 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

" She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest, 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied: 
" Self-blinded are you by your pride: 
Look up thro' night: the world is wide. 

" This truth within thy mind rehearse, 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 

'* Think you this m.ould of hopes and 

fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres 1 " 

It spake, moreover, in my mind: 

" Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, 

Yet is there plenty of the kind." 

Then did m.y response clearer fall: 
"No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all." 

To which he answer'd scoffingly: 
" Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, 
Who'll weep for thy deficiency ? 

" Or will one beam be less intense, 

When thy peculiar difference 

Is cancell'd in the world of sense ? '^ 

I would have said, *' Thou canst not 

know." 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me: 
" Thou art so steep'd in miser}", 
Surely 'twere better not to be. 



96 



THE TWO VOICES. 



" Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 
Nor any train of reason keep : 
Thou canst not think, but thou wilt 
weep." 

I said, " The years with change ad- 
vance : 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

•' Some turn this sickness yet might 
take, [make 

Ev'n yet." But he : " What drug can 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake ? " 

I wept, *' Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 

"And men, thro' novel spheres of 

thought 
Still moving after truth long sought, 
Will learn new things when I am not." 

" Vet," said the secret voice, " some 

time 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

" Not less swift souls that yearn for 

light, 
Rapt after heaven's starry flight, 
Would sv^'eep the tracts of day and 

night. 

" Not less the bee would range her 

cells, 
The furzy prickle fire the dells, 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells." 

I said that " all the years invent; 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 

" Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power t " 

" The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
" Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

" Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
Just breaking over land and main } 



" Or make that morn, from his cold 

cro^<'n 
And crystal silence creeping down, 
Flood with full daylight glebe and 

town ? 

" Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 
Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 
In midst of knowledge, dfl-eam'd not 
yet. 

*' Thou hast not gained a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light, 
Because the scale is infinite. 

" 'Twere better not to breathe or speak, 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak, 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

" Moreover, but to seem to find 
Asks what thou lackest, thought re- 
sign' d, 
A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 

I said, " When I am gone awaj^ 
' He dared not tarry,' men will say. 
Doing dishonor to my clay." 

"This is more vile," he made reph^ 
" To breathe and loathe, to live' and 

sigh. 
Than once from dread of pain to die. 

" Sick art thou — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

" Do men love thee t Art thou so 

bound 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee lying underground } 

" The memory of the wither'd leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 

" Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ; 
The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just." 

" Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
" From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 

" Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me m the days 
i While still I yearn'd for human praise. 



THE TWO VOICES. 



97 



* When, wide in soul and bold of i 

tongus, I 

Among the tents I paused and sung, ! 

Tlie distant battle flash'd and rung. ! 

" I sung the joyful Paean clear, j 

And, sitting, burnish'd without fear i 
The brand, the buckler, and the speai-^- ! 

" Waiting to strive a happy strife, | 

To war with falsehood to the knife, j 
And not to lose the good of life — 

'• Some hidden principle to move. 
To put together, part and prove. 
And mete the bounds of hate and 
love — 

" As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt. 
That the whole mind might orb about — 

" To search thro* all I felt or saw, 
The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
And reach the law within the law: 

*•' At least, not rotting like a weed. 
But, having sown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of farther thought and deed, 

" To pass, when Life her light with- 
draws. 
Not void of righteous self-applause. 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

" In some good cause, not in mine own, 
To perish, wept for, honor'd, known, 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

" Whose eyes are dim with glorious 

tears. 
When, soil'd with noble dujt, he hears 
His country's wai-song thrill his ears: 

" Then dying of a mortal stroke, 
What time the foeman's line is broke, 
And all the war is roll'd in smoke/' 

" Yea ! " said the voice, " thy dream 

was good. 
While thou abodest in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 

" If Nature put rot forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 
Who is it that could live an hour ? 



" Then comes the check, the change, 

the fall. 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 

" Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a 

chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

"Thou hadst not. between death and 

birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labor little worth. 

"That men with knowledge merely 

play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; 

" Much less this dreamer, deaf and 
blind, [find, 

Named man, may hope some truth to 
That bears relation to the mind. 

" For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and 

soon 
Spins, toiling out his ovrn cocoon. 

" Cry, faint not: either Truth is bora 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 

" Cry, faint not, climb : the summits 

slope 
Beyond the furthest flights of hope, 
Vv''rapt in dense cloud from base to 

cope. 

" Sometimes a little corner shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

" I will go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brov/. 

" If straight thy track, or if oblique. 
Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost 

strike. 
Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; 

" And ov/ning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, 
Calling thyself a little lovrer 



98 



THE TV/0 VOICES. 



''Than angels. Cease to wail and 

brawl ! 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? 
There is one remedy for all." 

" O dull, one-sided voice," said T, 
" Wilt thou make everything a lie, 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

" I know that age to age succeeds, 
IMowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and' of creeds. 

" I cannot hide that some have striven, 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with 1 leaven : 

" Who, rowing hard against the stream, 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

" But heard, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

" Which did accomplish their desire, 
Bore and forebore, and did not tire. 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

" He heeded not reviling tones, 
Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 
Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised 
with stones : 

" But looking upward, full of grace. 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

" Not that the grounds of hope were 

fix'd, 
The elements were kindlier mix'd." 

I said, " I toil beneath the curse, 
Hut, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

" And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
1 knit a hundred others new: 

" Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense. 
Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence : 



" For I go, weak from suffering here : 
Naked 1 go, and void of cheer : 
What is it that I may not fear t " 

"Consider well," the voice replied, 
"His face, that two hours since hath 

died : 
Wilt thou find passion, pain, or pride ? 

'• Will he obey v»'hen one commands ? 
Or answer should one press his hands .'' 
He answers not, nor understands. 

" His palms are folded on his breast : 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

" His lips are very mild and meek : 
Tho' one should smite him on the cheek, 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

" His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace. 
Becomes dishonor to her race — 

" His sons grow up that bear his name, 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

** He will not hear^he north-wind rave, 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave- 

" High up the vapors lold and swim : 
About him broods the twilight dim : 
The place he knew forgetteth him." 

" If all bo dark, vague voice," I said, 
" These things are wrapt in doubt and 

dread. 
Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 

'* The sap dries up : the plant declines. 
A deeper tale my heart divines. 
Know I not Death.? the outward signs.'' 

" I found him when my years were few; 
A shadow on the graves I knew, 
And darkness in the village yew. 



Fr 



the shadow 



grave to grave 
crept : 
In her still place the morning wept : 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 



THE TWO VOICES. 



99 



" The simple senses crown'cl his head : 
* Omega ! thou art Lord,' they said 
' We fiHid no motion in the dead.' 

" Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fact, as taught by 

these, 
Not make him sure that he shall cease ? 

" Who forged that other influence. 

That heat of inward evidence. 

By which he doubts against the sense ? 

" \lt owns the fatal gift of eyes, 
That read his spirit blindly wise, 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

" Here sits he shaping wings to fly : 
His heart forebodes a mystery: 
He names the name Eternity. 

" That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

" He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

" The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many things perplex, 
With motions, checks, and counter- 
checks. 

" He knows a baseness in' his blood 
At such strange war with something 

good, 
He may not do the thing he would. 

" Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 
Vast images in glimmering dawn. 
Half -shown, are broken and withdrawn. 

"Ah ! sure within him and without, 
Could his dark wisdom find it out, 
There must be answer to his doubt. 

" P.Lit thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain, 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

"The' doubt would rest, I dare not 

solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve." 



As when a billow, blown against, 
Falls back, the voice with which I 

fenced 
A little ceased, but recommenced : 

" Where wert thou when thy father 

play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

" A merry boy they called him tlien. 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again. 

" Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Their course, till thou wert also man : 

" Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his days : 

" A life of nothings, nothing-worth, 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! " 

" These words," I said, " are like the 

rest. 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

" But if I grant, thou might'st defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end ; 

" Yet how should I for certain hold, 
Because my memory is so cold. 
That I first was in human mould ? 

" I cannot make this matter plain, 
But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

" It may be that no life is found, 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

" As old mythologies relate. 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 

" As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then. 
Until they fall in trance again. 



I GO 



THE TWO VOICES. 



" So might \vc, if our state were such 
As one before, remember much, 
For those two likes might meet and 
touch. 

" But, if I lapsed from nobler place. 
Some legend of a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 

'• Some vague emotion of delight 
In gazing up an Alpine height, 
Some yearning towards the lamps of 
night. 

" Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

" I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haunts of memory echo not. 

" And men, whose reason long was 

blind, 
From cells of madness unconfined, 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

" Much more, if first I floated free. 
As naked essence, must I be, 
incompetent of memory : 

"For memory dealing but with time, 
And he with matter, could she climb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

" Moreover, something is or seems, 
That touches me with mystic gleams, 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

"Of something felt, like something 

here ; 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare." 

The still voice laugh'd. " I talk," 

said he, 
"Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality." 

" But thou," said I, " hast miss'd thy 

m.ark, 
\Vho sought'st to wreck my mortal 

ark. 
By making all the horizon dark. 



" Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new^ 

" Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 

No life that breathes with human 

breath 
Has ever truly long'd for death. 

" 'T is life, whereof our nerves are 
scant, 

life, not death, for which we pant ; 
More life, and fuller, that I want." 

1 ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn : 
"Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 
When meres begin to uncongeal. 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

On to God's house the people prest : 
Passing the place where each must rest, 
Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife and child, 
With measur'd footfall firm and mild. 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The i)rudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him< faithful, gentle, good, 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure, 
The little maiden walk'd demure, 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet, 
My frozen heart began to beat, 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander 'd on : 
I spoke, but answer came there none 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A little whisper silver-clear, 

A murmur, " Be .of better cheer." 

As from some blissful neighborhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

" I see the end, and know the good.'* 



THE DA Y- DREAM. 



loi 



A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing jow, 

" I may not speak of what I know."' 

Like an ^olian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes : 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : 
*' What is it thou knowest, sweet 

vo ce ? " I cried. 
" A hidden hope," the voice replied : 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow tiuai the 
shower, 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went, 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I ivonder'd at the bounteous hours, 
The slow result of winter-showers : 
You scarce could see the grass for 
flowers. 

I wonder'd, while I paced along : 
The woods were fill'd so full with song, 
There seem'd no room for sense of 
wrong. 

So variously seem'd all things wrought, 
I marveird how the mind was brought 
To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, "Rejoice! 
rejoice !" 



THE DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 



O Lady Flora, let me speak: 
A pleasant hour has past away . 

While, dreaming on your damask 
cheek. 
The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 



As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And 1 too dream'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm, 
The reflex oc a legend past, 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I had, 

And see the vision that I saw, 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crim.-ou to the quaint ALicaw, 
And 1 will tell it. Turn your face, 

Nor look with that too earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzied fiom their 
place, 

And order'd words asunder fly. 

THE SLEEPING-PALACE. 
I. 
The varying year with blade and sheaf 
Clothes and reciothes the happy 
plains : 
Here rests the sap within the leaf, 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd, 
Faint murmurs from the meadows 
come, 
Like hints and echoes of the world 
To spirits folded in the womb 

2. 

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns, 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower. 

On the hall-hearths the festal fire^, 
The peacock in his laurel bower, 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 

3- 

Roof-haunting martins warm their 
eggs : 

In these, in those the life is stay'd, 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily : no sound is made, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

Mor like a picture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings. 

That watch the sle«.pers from tJ>« 
wall. 



102 



THE DA Y-DREAM. 



Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between his knees half-drain'd ; and 
there 
The wrinkled steward at his task, 

The maid-of-honor blooming fair: 
The page has caught her hand in his: 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak: 
His own are pouted to a kiss : 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 



Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that through the oriel 
shine, 
Make prisms in every carven glass. 

And beaker brimm'd with noble 
wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 

Grave faces gather'd in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 



All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes. 

And grapes with bunches red as 
blood ; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, bur and brake and 
brier, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen, 

High up the topmost palace-spire. 



When will the hundred summers die. 
And thought and time be born 
again. 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh. 
Bring truth that svvays the soul of 
men ? 
Here all things in their place remain. 

As all were order'd, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and 
Pain, 
And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPING-BEAUTY. 



Year after year unto her feet. 

She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purpled coverlet, 

The maiden's jet-black hair has 
grown. 
On either side her tranced form 

P^orth streaming from a braid of 
pearl ; 
The slumbrous light is rich and warm. 

And moves not on the rounded curl. 



The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her liml itself doth mould 
Languidly ever , .aid, amid 

Her full black ringlets downward 
roiVd, 
Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm 
With bracelets of the diamond 
bright : 
Her constant beauty doth inform 
Stillness with love, and day with 
light. 

3- 
She sleeps: her breathings are not 
heard 
In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 
That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps : on either hand upswells 
The gold-fringed pillow lightly 
prest : 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever 
dwells 
A perfect form in perfect rest. 

THE ARRIVAL. 



All precious things, discover'd late. 

To those that seek them issue forth j 
For love in sequel works with fate. 

And draws the veil from hidden 
worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes. 

And lighter-footed than the fox, 



THE DA Y-DREAM. 



103 



The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass, 
Are wither'd in the thorny close, 

Or scattered blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead 

"They perish'd in their daring 
deeds." 
This proverb flashes thro' his head. 

"The many fail: the one succeeds." 

3- 
He comes, scarce knowing what he 
seeks : 
He breaks the hedge : he enters 
there : 
The color flies into his cheeks : 

He trusts to light on something fair; 
For all his life the charm did talk 
About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 
And whisper'd voices at his ear. 

4- 
More close and close his footsteps 
wind ; 
The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark, 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. 
" Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 

How dark those hidden eyes must 
be!" 

THE REVIVAL. 
I. 

A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks, 
And feet that ran, and doors that 
clapt, 

And barking, dogs, and crowing 
cocks ; 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 
The butler drank, the steward 
scrawl'd; 



The fire shot up, the martin flew, 
The parrot scream'd, the peacock 
squall'd, 
The maid and page renew'd their 
strife, 
The palace bang'd, and buzz'd, and 
clackt. 
And all the long-pent stream of life 
Dash'd downward in a cataract. 



And last with these the king awoke, 

And in his chair himself uprear'd, 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and 
spoke, 

" By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 

4- 
" Pardy," return'd the king, " but still 

My joints are something stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I m.ention'd half an hour ago } " 
The chancellor, sedate and vain, 

In courteous words return'd reply ; 
But dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, put the question by. 

THE DEPARTURE. 
I. 

And on her lover's arm she leant, 

And round her waist she felt it fold, 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old : 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess follow'd him. 

2. 

" I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss" ; 
" O wake forever, love," she hears, . 

" O love, 't was such as this and 
this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star. 

And many a merry wind was borne, 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar. 

The twilight melted into morn. 



104 



THE DA Y- DREAM. 



"O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 

" C3 happy sleep, that lightly fled !" 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep I " 

"O love, thy kiss would wake the 
dead ! 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark, 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 

4. 
" A hundred summers ! can it be ? 
And whither goes thou, tell me 
where ? " 
*• O seek my father's court with me, 
For there are greater wonders 
there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day, 
Thro' all the world she folio w'd him. 

MORAL. 



So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And if you find no moral there, 
Go, look in any glass and say, 

What moral is in being fair. 
O, to what uses shall we put 

The wildweed-flower that simply 
blows ? 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose.? 



But any man that walks the mead, 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may tind, 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend; 
vSo 't were to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end, 

L'ENVOr. 
I. 

You shake your head. A random 
string 
Your finer female sense offends. 



Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends ; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 
And every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep again : 
To sleep thro' terms oi mighty wars, 

And wake on science grown to more. 
On secrets of the brain, the stars, 

As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the years will show. 

The Poet forms of stronger hours, 
The vast Republics that may grow. 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes; 
For we are Ancients of the earth, 

And in the morning of the times. 



So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 
Thro' sunny decades new and strange, 

Or gay quinquenniads wo.ild we reap 
The flower and quintessence of 
change. 

3- 

Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake I 
For, am I right or am I wrong, 

To choose your own you did not 
care ; 
You'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there : 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro'. 
To search a meaning for the song. 

Perforce will still revert to vou ; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

All-graceful head, so richly curl'd. 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 



For since the time when Adam first 
Embraced his Eve in happy hour. 

And every bird of Eden burst 
In carol, every bud to flower. 

What eyes, like thine, have waken'd 
hopes t 



AMPHION. 



105 



What lips, like thine, so sweetly 
join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 
Which all too dearly self-involved, 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ;' 
A sleep by kisses undissolved, 

That lets thee neither hear nor see : 
But break it. In the name of wife, 

And in the rights that name may give, 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, 

And that for which I care to live. 

EPILOGUE. 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

" What wonder, if he thinks me 
fair?'; 
What wonder I was all unwise, 

To shape the song for your delight. 
Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise, 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot 
light ? 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — earnest wed with sport. 

And either sacred unto you. 



AMPHION. 

My father left a park to me. 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree 

And waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighbors when they call, 

It is not bad but good land, 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion 1 
And had I lived when song was great. 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

And fiddled in the timber ! 

'T is said he had a tuneful tongue, 
Such happy intonation, 



Wherever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation ; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes. 
The gouty oak began to move, 

And flounder into hornpipes. 

-The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches, 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting w^ith young beeches; 
And briony-vine and ivy-wreath 

Ran forward to his rhyming, 
And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The birch-tree swang her fragrant hair, 

The bramble cast her berry. 
The gin within the juniper 

Began to make him merry, 
The poplars, in long order due. 

With cypress pvomenaded, 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shot a^der from the wave. 

Came yews, a dism^.l coterie ; 
Each pluck'd his one foot from the 
grave, 
Poussettmg wnth a s'oe-tree : 
Old elms came breaking from the vine. 
The vine stream'd out to follow, 
I And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 
From many a cloudy hollow. 

j And wasn't it a sight to see, 

j When, ere his song was ended, 

j Like some great landslip, tree by tree, 

The country-side descerded; 
I And shepherds from the mountain- 
I eaves [frighten'd, 

I Look'd down, half-pleased, half- 

As dash'd about the drunken leaves 
i The random sunshine lighten'd ! 

I O, nature first was fresh to men, 
j And wanton without measure ; 
j Sp youthful and so flexile then, 
I You moved her at your pleasure. 

Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the 
tv/igs ! 
j And make her r'-'-ice attendance; 

Blow, flute, and c. the stiff -set sprigs, 
1 And scirrhous roots and tendons. 



io6 



S/R GALAHAD, 



Tis vain ! in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle: 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle: 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strimiming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick, 

The passive oxen gaping. 

Dut what is that I hear ? a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading : 
O Lord ! — 't is in my neighbor's ground, 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening through 
there, 
And Methods of transplanting trees, 

To look as if they grew there. 

The withered Misses! how thev prose 

O'er books of travell'd seamen. 
And show you slips of all that grows 

From England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbors dipt and cut. 

And alleys, faded places, 
Ky squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 

Hut these, tho' fed with careful dirt, 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
llalf-conscious of the garden-squirt, 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain, 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 

And I must work thro' months of toil. 

And years of cultivation, 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 
I'll take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom : 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossoui. 



The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies. 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes* are soiled and 
dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am. 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw m.e, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strews her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Lleavenly Bridegroom 
waits. 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 



ST. AGNES. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 
Are sparkling to the moon: 

My breath to heaven like vapor goes 
May mv soul follow soon 1 



SIR GALAHAD.- 

Mv good blade carves the casques of 
men 

My tough lance thrusteth sure. 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and 
fly, 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging, lists, 

And when -the tide of combat stands. 



EDWARD GRAY. 



07 



Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 
That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On wliom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle to the end, 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and 
shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam. 

Me mightier trausports move and 
thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims. 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride : 

I heaV a voice, but none are there : 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide. 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth. 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings. 

And solemn chants resound between, 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark; 
I leap on board: no helmsman steers: 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
V/ith folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! ■ 

My spirit beats her mortal bars. 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go. 
The cock crows ere the Christmas 
morn, 
The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads. 
And, ringing, spins from brand and 
mail : [ 



But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er- waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease. 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and 
eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken In the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
" O just and faithful knight of God? 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and ^ange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd"l ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



EDWARD GR.\Y. 

SwEF.T Emma Moreland of yonder 

town 

Met me walking on yonder way, 

"And have you 4ost your heart?" she 

said: [Gray?" 

" And are you married yet, Edward 

Sv.-eet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 

" Ellen Adair she loved me well, 
Against her father's and mother's 
will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 



io8 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



"Shy she was, and T thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the 
sea , 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite, 

When Ellen Adair v/as dying for nie. 

'Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day: 
You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

' To trouble the heart of Edward 
Gray.' 

"There T \i\\\. my face in the grass — 
Whispcr'd, ' Listen to my despair: 

I repent me of all I did: 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair! ' 

" Then I took a pencil, and wrote 
On the mossy stone, as I lay, 

'Here lies the body of Ellen Adair : 
And here the heart of Edward Gray !' 

" Love may come, and love may go. 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to 
tree ; 

But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair comes back to me. 

"Bitterly wept T over the stone : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

There lies the body of Ellen Aclairl 
And there the heart of Edward 
Grav ! " 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRI- 
CAL MONOLOGUE. 

MADE AT TPIE COCK. 

O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, 

To which I must resort, 
Ilowgoes the time .^ 'Tis five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You set before chance-comers. 
But such whose father-grape grew fat 

On Lusitanian summers. 

No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind, 
And whisi:ier lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind. 



To make me write my randonrn rhymes. 

Ere they be half-forgotten ; 
Nor add and alter, many times» 

Till all be iipe and rotten. 

I pledge her, and she comes and dips 

Her laurel m the wine, 
y\nd lays it thrice upon my I'ps, 

These favor'd lips of mine ; 
Until the charm have powtr to make 

New life-blood warm the bosom. 
And barren commonplaces break 

In full and kindly blossom, 

I pledge her silent at the board ; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch u]jon the mas.er-chord 

Of all I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart within the man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 

Thro' many an hour of summer suns 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of mv days • 
I kiss the Ii])s I once have kiss'd; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer; 
And softly thro' a vnous mist. 

My college friendships glimmer. 

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen. 
Or that eternal want of pence, 

Which vexes public men, 
WHio hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them, — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 

And all the world go by them. 

Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, 

Tho' fortune clip my wings, 
I will not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood; 

There must be stormy weather ; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes*. 
If old things, there are new; 

Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, 
Yet glimpses of the true. 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



109 



Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, 
We lack not rhymes and reasons, 

As on this whirligig of Time 
We circle with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid; 

With fair horizons bound! 
This whole wide earth of light and 
shade 

Comes out, a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And, set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all things as they are, 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest 

Half-mused, or reeling-ripe, 
The pint, you brought me, was the 
best 

That ever came from pipe. 
But tho' the port surpasses praise. 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place? 

Or do my peptics differ? 

For since I came to live and learn, 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head. 
Which bears a season'd brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, 

Thro' every convolution. 

For I am of a numerous house, 

With many kinsmen gay. 
Where long and largely we carouse. 

As who shall say me nay: 
Each month, a birthday coming on, 

We drink defying trouble, 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double; 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept, 

Had relish fiery-new, 
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, 

As old as WaterhDO ; 
Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) 

In musty bins and chambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 



The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! 

She answer'd to my call, 
She changes with that mood or this. 

Is all-in-all to all : 
She lit the spark within my throat, 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout, 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally; 
I think he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg. 

And cramm'd a plumper crop; 
Upon an am.pler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his jo}', 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy, 

That knuckled at the taw : 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and 
good 

Flew over roof and casement : 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe, and 
spire, 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire. 

Came crowing over Tham.es. 
Right down by sm.oky Paul's they bore. 

Till, where the street grows straiter, 
One fix'd forever at the door, 

And one became head-waiter. 



But whither would mv fancv go? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and stealcsl 



no 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



'Tis but a steward of the can, 

One shade more plump than com- 
mon ; 

As just and mere a serving-man 
As any, born of woman. 

I ranged too high: what draws me 
down 

Into the common day ? 
Is it the weight of that half-crown, 

Which I shall have to pay? 
For, something duller than at first, 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
I sit (my empty glass reversed), 

And thrumming on the table : 

Half fearful that, with self at strife^ 

I take myself to task; 
l.est of the fulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask: 
For I had hope, by something rare , 

To prove myself a poet ; 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began, 

Till they be gather'd up; 
The truth, that flies the flowing can, 

Will haunt the vacant cup: 
AndlDthers' follies teach us not. 

Nor much their wisdom teaches ; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone, 

'Tis gone, and let it go. 
'Tis gone: a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces. 
And fall'n into the dusty crj'pt 

Of darken'd forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more: 
With peals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-door. 
With twisted quirks and happy hits, 

From misty men of letters; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits, — ' 

Thine elders and thy betters. 



Hours, when the Poet's words and 
looks 

Had yet their native glow: 
Not yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd. 

He flash'd his random speeches ; 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd, 

His literary leeches. 

So mix forever with the past. 

Like all good things on earth ! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou 
last, 

At half thy real worth ? 
I hold it good, good things should 
pass: 

With time I will not quarreL* 
It is but yond'er empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 



Head waiter of the chop-house here, 

To which I must resort, 
I too must part; I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
For this, thou shalt from all things 
suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter; 
And, wheresoe'er thou move, good 
luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence. 

The sphere thy fate allots : 
Thy latter days increased with pence 

Go down among the pots: 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners. 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, ive fume, would shift our 
skins. 

Would quarrel with our lot: 
Thy care is, under polish'd tins. 

To serve the hot and-hot; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit, 
And watch'd by silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 



TC E L. CA HIS TRA VELS IN GREECE. 



Ill 



Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes : 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes, 
Till mellow Death, like some late 
guest. 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor. 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more : 
No carved cross-bones, the types of 
Death, 

Shall show thee past to Heaven: 
But carved cross-pipes, and, under- 
neath, 

A pint-pot, neatly graven. 



TO , 

AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 

" Cursed be he that moves my bones." 

Shakespeare' s Epitaph. 

You might have won the Poet's name. 
If such be w^orth the winning now. 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice : 

And you have miss'd the irreverent 
doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown: 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the poet cannot die 
Nor leave his music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 

" Proclaim the faults he would not 
show : 
Break lock and seal : Betray the 

trust : 
Keep nothing sacred : 'tis but just 
The many-headed beast diould know." 



Ah shameless ! for he did but sing 
A song that pleased us from its 

worth ; 
No public life Was his on earth. 

No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the people of his best : 

His worst he kept, his best he gave. 
My Shakespeare's curse on clown 
and knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest ! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
TJie little life of bank and brier. 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree, 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd ! 



TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN 
GREECE. 

Illy Ri AN woodlands, echomg falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Peneian pass. 

The vast Akrokeraunfen walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair. 
With such a pencil, such a pen, 
You sliadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there : 

And trust me while I turn'd the page, 
And track'd you still on classic 

ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

:\Iy spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever pour'd 

And glisten'd — here and there alone 
The broad-limb'd Gods at random 
thrown 

By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads Oar'd 

A glimmering shoulder under gloom 
Of cavern pillars • on the swell 
The silver lily heaved ancl f u ; 

And many a slope was rich in .oom 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancin rivulets fed " is flocks, 
To him wh^ sat upon tl.- rocks, 

And fluted to the moi g sea. 



1X2 



LADY CLARE 



LADY CLARE. 

It was the time whca nlies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they : 

They loo v;ill wed the morrow morn: 
God's blessing on the day ! 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair: 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well,'' said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 
Said, "Who was this that went from 
thee ? " 

=' It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare, 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 

"O God be thank'd!" said Alice the 
nurse, 
*' That all comes round so just and 
fair : 
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, 
my nurse ?" 
Said Ladv Clare, " that ye speak so 
wild ? "' 
" As God's above," said Alice the 
nurse, 
" I speak the truth : you are my 
child. 

"The old Earl's daughter died at my 
breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 

*' Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

O mother," she said, " if this be 
true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

Nay now, my child," said Alice the 

nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life, 
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 



" If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold. 
And fling the diamond necklace by/^ 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the 
nurse, 

" But keep the secret all ye can." 
She said "Not so: but I will know 

If there be any faith in man." 

* Nay now, what faith } " said Alice 
the nurse, 
" The man will cleave unto his 
right." 
" And he shall have it," the lady 
replied, 
" Tho' I should die to-night." 

"Yet give one kiss to your mother 
dear ! 

Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee.'' 
" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 
My mother dear, if this be so, 

And lay your hand upon my head. 
And blesjs me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went by 
down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had 
brought 

Leapt up from where she lav, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And tollow'd her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his 
tower : 
"O Lady Clare, you shame your 
worth ! 
Why come you drest like a village 
maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ? " 

" If I come drest like a village iiaid, 
I am but as my fortunes are : 

I am a beggar born," she said, • 
" And not the Lady Clare." 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 



113 



" Play me no tricks," said Lord 
Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and in 
deed. 
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale- 
He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: 

He turn'd, and kiss'd her where she 
stood : 
" If you are not the heiress born, 

And I," said he, "the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And 1," said he, "the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 

In her -ear he whispers gayly, 

" If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watched thee daily. 

And I think thou lov'st me well." 
She replies, in accents fainter, 
. " There is none I love like thee." 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter, 

Presses his without reproof ; 
Leads her to the village altar, 

And they leave her father's roof. 
" I can make no marriage present ; 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 

And I love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand ; 
Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well, 
•' Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes by him attended. 

Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 



Lay betwixt his home and hers , 
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 
Parks and order'd gardens great, 
Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Built for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him dearer : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer. 

Where they twain will spend their 
days. 
O but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home ; 
She will order all things duly, 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly. 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns ; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before : 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call, 
While he treads with footstep firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

"All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty. 
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin : 
As it were with shame she blushes, 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countennance all over 
Pale again as death did prove ; 
But he clasp'd ker like a lover, 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirits sank : 
Shaped her heart with woman's meet 
ness 
To all duties of her rank ; 
And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady, 
And the people loved her much. 



§ 



114 



A FAREWELL, 



But a trouble weigh'd upon her, 

And perplex'd her, night and morn, 
With the burden of an honor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 

As she murmur'd, " O, that he 
Were once more that landscape- 
painter, 

Which did win my heart from me ! " 
So she droop'd and droop'd before 
him, 

Fading slowly from his side ; 
Three fair children first she bore him, 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early, 

Walking up and pacing down. 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he look'd at her and said, 
" Bring the dress and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was wed." 
Then her people, softly treading. 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in. 

That her spirit might have rest. 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Like souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven 

again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sunli fall of rain. 

In cry.^tal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
And, far m forest-deeps unseen, 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song : 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong: 
Sornetimes the sparhawk,wheerd along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of 
wrong : 
By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran, 



And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spreacl into the perfect fan, 
Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part ot joyous Spring ; 
A grown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet. 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set; 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the 
plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warbiings, 
When all the glimmering moorland 
rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, 
The happy winds upon her play'd. 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid: 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty tinger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this, 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips 



A FAREWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute wave deliver; 

No more by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 

Forever and forever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree 
And here thine aspen shiver: 

And here by thee will hum the bee, 
Forever and forever. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



115 



A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. 



THE BEGGAR MAID 

Her arms across her breast she laid : 

She was more fair than words can 
say : 
Barefooted came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet her on her way : 
*' It is no wonder," said the lords, 

" She is more beautiful than day " 

As shines the moon in clouded skies, 

She in her poor attire was seen : 
One praised her ankles, one her eyes, 

One her dark hair and lovesome 
mien. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had never been • 
Cophetua sware a royal oath ; 

" This beggar maid shall be my 
q^ieen ! " 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



I HAD a vision when the night was 

late : 
A youth came riding toward a palace- 
gate. 
He rode a horse with wings, that would 

have flown. 
But that his heavy rider kept him down 
And from the palace came a child of 

sin, 
And took him by the curls, and led him 

in, 
Where sat a company with heated eyes, 
Expecting when a fountain should arise : 
A sleepy light upon their brows and 

lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse. 
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles 

and capes — 



Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid 

shapes. 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, 

and piles of grapes. 



Then methought I heard a mellow 

sound. 
Gathering up from all the lower ground; 
Narrowing in to where thev sat assem- 
bled 
Low voluptuous music winding trem- 
bled, 
Wov'n in circles: they that heard it 

sigh'd, 
Panted hand in hand with faces pale. 
Swung themselves, and in low tones 

replied ; 
Till the fountain spouted, showering 

wide 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; 
Then the music touch'd the gates and 

died ; 
Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, 
Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing 

gale ; 
Till thronging in and in, to where they 

waited, 
As 'twere a hundred-throated night- 
ingale. 
The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd 

and palpitated ; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound. 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles, 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid 

mazes, 
Flung the torrent rainbow round : 
Then they started from their places, 
Moved with violence, changed in hue, 
Caught each other with wild grimaces, 
Halt-invisible to the view, 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew, 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces. 
Twisted hard in fierce emb aces, 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew : 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Flutter'd headlong from the sky. 



tiO 



THE VISION OF SIM. 



And then I look'd up toward a moun- 
tain-tract, 
That girt the region with high cliff and 

. lawn : 
I saw that every morning, far withdrawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made himself an awful rose of 

dawn, 
Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold. 
From those still heights, and, slowly 

drawing near, 
A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold, 
Came floating on for many a month 

and year. 
Unheeded : and I thought I would 

have spoken, 
And warned that madman ere it grew 

too late : 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine 

was broken. 
When that cold vapor touch'd the 

palace gate. 
And link'd again. I saw within my 

head 
A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as 

death. 
Who slowly rode across a wither'd 

heath, 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn d said : 



** Wrinkled hositler, grim and thin ! 

Here is custom come your way ; 
Take my brute, and lead him in, 

Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

'* Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed ; 
What! the flower of life is 'past : 

It is long before you wed. 

" Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath ! 

Let us have a quiet hour, 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 

" I am old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, when I think, 

Tnat my youth was half divine. 



"Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, 
When a blanket wraps the day, 

When the rotten woodland drips, 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

** Sit thee down, and have no shame, 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee: 

What care I for any name .'' 
What for order or degree ? 

" Let me screw thee up a peg : 
I^et me loose thy tongue with wine : 

Callest thou that thing a leg .-' 

Which is thinnest.'* thine or mine ? 

" Thou shalt not be saved by works : 
Thou hast been a sinner too : 

Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks, 
Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn ; 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

'* We are men of ruin'd blood ; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

" Name and fame ! to fly sublime * 
Through the courts, the camps, the 
schools 

Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied in the hands of fools. 

" Friendship ! — to be two in one — 

Let the canting liar pack ! 
Well I know, when I am gone, 

How she mouths behind my back. 

" Virtue ! — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well, 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 

" O ! we two as well can look 
Whited thought and cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn : 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born, 



THE VISION OF SIX. 



117 



"Drink, and let the parties rave ; 

They are fill'd with idle spleen ; 
Rising, falling, like a wave, 

For they know not what thy mean. 

" He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power ; 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gayly doth she tread ; 

In her right a civic wreath, 
In her left a human head. 

-*' No, I love not what is new ; 

She is of an ancient house : 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

" Let her go ! her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs : 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

"Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 
Visions of a perfect State: 

Drink we, last, the public fool. 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

" Chant me now some wicked stave, 
Till thy drooping courage rise, 

And the glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

" Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ; 

Set thy hoary fancies free ; 
What is loathsome to the young 

Savors well to thee and me. 

"Change, reverting to the years, 
When thy nerves could understand 

What there is in loving tears, 
And the warmth of hand in hand. 

" Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance : 

Till the graves begin to move. 
And the dead begin to dance. 



" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 

All the windy ways of men 
Are but dust that rises up, 

And is lightly laid again. 

" Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads : 

Welcome, fellow-citizens, 
Hollow hearts and empty heads ! 

"You are bones, and what of that,? 

Every face, however full. 
Padded round with flesh and fat, 

Is but modell'd on a skull. 

" Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 

Tread a measure on the stones, 
Madam — if I know your sex, 

From the fashion of your bones. 

" No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet your lip : 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

" Lo! God's likeness — the ground-plan 
Neither modell'd, glazed, or framed: 

Buss me, thou rough sketch of man. 
Far too naked to be shamed ! 

** Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath ! 

Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death \ 

" Thou art mazed, the night is long, 
And the longer night is near : 

What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

** Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can ! 

Mingle madness, mingle scorn I 
Dregs of life, and lees of man : . 

Yet we will not die forlorn." 

5- 
The voice grew faint : there came a 

further change : 
Once more uprose the mystic mountain 

range : 



iiH 



THE POET'S SONG. 



Below were men and horses pierced 

with worms, 
And slowly quickening into lower 

forms ; 
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum 

of dross, 
Qld plash of rains, and refuse patch'd 

with nioss. 
Then some one spake : *' Behold ! it 

was a crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore 

with time." 
Another said : " The crime of sense 

became 
The crime of malice, and is equal 

blame." 
And one : " He had not wholly quench'd 

his power ; [sour." 

A little grain of conscience made him 
At last I heard a voice upon the slope 
Cry to the summit, " Is there any 

hope ? " 
To which an answer peal'd from that 

high land. 
But in a tongue no man could under- 
stand ; 
And on the glimmering limit far with- 
drawn 
God made Himself an awful rose of 

dawn. 



Come not, when I am dead, 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my 
grave, 
To trample round my fallen head, 
And vex the unhappy dust thou 
wouldst not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the plover 
cry ; 
But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy 
• crime 
I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of 
Time, 
And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me 
where I lie : 
Go by, go by. 



THE EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches from his niountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange, sunset waning slow : 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go : 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

Tliat watch me from the glen below.^ 

Ah. bear me with thee, lightly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light. 

And move me to my marriage-morn, 
And round again to happy night. 



Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

THE POET'S SONG. 

The rain had faflen, the Poet arose, 
He pass'd by the town and out of the 
street. 



THE PRINCESS. 



IK 



A light wind blew fi-om the gates of 
the sun, 
And waves of shadow went over the 
wheat, 
And he sat him down in a lonely 
place. 
And chanted a melody loud and 
sweet, 
That made the wild-swan pause in her 
cloud, 
And the lark drop down at his feet. 



The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, 

The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood with the down on 
his beak. 
And stared, with his foot on the prey, 
And the nightingale thought, " I have 
sung many songs. 
But never a one so ga}', 
For he sings of what the world will 
be 
When the years have died away." 



THE PRINCESS 

A MEDLEY. 



TO 

KENRY LUSHINGTON 

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY HIS FRIEND 

A. TENNYSON. 



PROLOGUE. 

Sir WaJuTGr Vivian all a summer's 

day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of 

sun 
Up to the people : thither flock'd at 

noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and thither 

half 
The neighboring borough with their 

Institute 
Of which he was the patron. I was 

there [son 

From college, visiting the son, — the 
A Walter too, — with others of our set, 
Five others : we were seven at Vivian- 
place. 

And me that morning Walter show'd 
the house, 
Greek, set with busts : from vases in 
the hall 



Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier 

than their names. 
Grew side by side ; and on the pave- 
ment lay 
Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the 

park. 
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones 

of Time ; 
And on the tables every clime and age 
Jumbled together; celts and calumets, 
Claymore and snow-shoe, toys in lava, 

fans 
Of sandal, am.ber, ancient rosaries, 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in 

sphere, [clubs 

The cursed Malayan crease, and battle- 
From the isles of palm . and higher on 

the walls, » 

Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and 

deer, 
His own forefathers' arms and armor 

hung. 



I20 



THE PRINCESS. 



And " this," he said, " was Hugh's 

at Agincourt ; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at As- 

calon : 
A good knight he ! we keep a chranicle 
With all about him/' — which he 

brought, and I 
Dived m a hoard of tales that dealt 

with knights 
llalf-legend, half-historic, counts and 

kings 
Who laid about them at their wills and 

died; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that 

arm'd 
Her* own fair head, and sallying thro' 

the gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from 

her walls. 

'* O miracle of women," said the 

book, 
" O noble heart who, being strait-be- 
sieged 
By this wild king to force her to his 

wish. 
Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a 

soldier's death. 
But now when all was lost or seem'd 

as lost — 
Her stature more than mortal in the 

burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on 

fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from 

the gate. 
And, falling on them like a thunder- 
bolt, 
She trampled some beneath her horses' 

heels, 
And some were whelm'd with missiles 

of the wall, 
And some were push'd with lances 

from the rock, 
And part were drown'd within the 

whirling brook: 
O piiracle of noble womanhood I " 

So sang the gallant glorious chron- 
icle ; 
^nd, I all rapt in this, *' Come out," he 
said. 



*' To the Abbey : there is Aunt Eliz' 

abeth 
And sister Lilia with the rest." We 

went 
(I kept the book and had my finger 

in it) 
Down thro' the park : strange was the 

sight to me ; 
For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, 

sown 
With happy faces and with holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thou- 
sand heads ; 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Taught them with facts. One rear'd a 

font of stone 
And drew from butts of water on the 

slope, 
The fountain of the moment, playing 

now • 

A twisted snake, and now a rain of 

pearls, 
Or steep-up spoilt whereon the gilded 

ball 
Danced like a wisp : and somewhat 

lower down 
A man with knobs and wires and vials 

fired 
A cannon : Echo answer' d in her sleep 
From hollow fields : and here were 

telescopes 
I For azure views ; and there a group of 

girls [shock 

In circle waited, whom the electric 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter: 

round the lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling 

plied 
And shook the lilies; perch'd about 

the knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam ; 
A petty railway ran: a fire-balloon 
Rose gem-like up before the dusky 

groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and past : 
And there thro' twenty posts of tele- 
graph 
Thev flashed a saucy message to and 

'fro 
Between the mimic stations ; so that 

sport 



THE FRINCESS, 



121 



Went hand in hand with Science; 

otlier where 
Pure sport : a herd of boys with clamor 

bowl'd 
And stump'd the wicket ; babies roll'd 

about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men 

and maids 
Arranged a country dance, and flew 

thro' light 
And shadow, while the twangling 

violin 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and 

overhead 
The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty 

lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze from 

end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking 

of the time ; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at 

length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and 

ivy-claspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost 

they gave 
The park, the crowd, the house ; but 

all within 
The sward was trim as any garden 

lawn : 
And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady 

friends 
From neighbor seats : and there was 

Ralph himself, 
A broken statue propt against the 

wall, 
As gay as any. Lilia wild with sport, 
Half child, half woman as she was, had 

wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony 

helm. 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk. 
That made the old warrior from his 

ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb a 

feast 
Shone, silver-set ; about it lay the 

guests, 



And there we joined them : then the 

maiden Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from it 

preach'd 
An universal culture for the crowd. 
And all things great ; but we, un- 

w^orthier, told 
Of College : he had climb'd across the 

spikes. 
And he had squeezed himself betwixt 

the bars. 
And he had breathed the Proctor's 

dogs : and one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common 

men, 
But honeying at the whisper of a lord ; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in 

grain 
Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their 

heads I saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad; which 

brought 
My book to mind : and opening this I 

read 
Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that 

rang 
With tilt and tourney ; then the tale of 

her 
That drove her foes with slaughter 

from her walls. 
And much I praised her nobleness, 

and " Where," 
Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head 

(she lay 
Beside him) "lives there such a wo- 
man now ? " 

Quick answer'd Lilia, " There are 

thousands now 
Such women, but convention beats 

them down: 
It is but bringing up ; no more than 

that : 
You men have done it : how I hate 

you all ! 
Ah ! were I something great ! I wish I 

were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame 

you then, 



122 



THE PRINCESS. 



That love to keep us children ! O I 

wish 
That I were some great Princess, I 

would build 
Far off from men a college like a 

man's, 
And I would teach them all that men 

are taught : 
We are twice as quick!" And here 

she shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with 

her curls. 

And one said smiling, " Pretty were 

the sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, 

and flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers for 

deans, 
And sweet girl-graduates in their 

golden hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty 

gowns, 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths or 

Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner; yet I 

fear, 
If there were many Lilias in the brood, 
However deep you m.ight embower the 

nest 
Some boy would spy it." 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot : 
"That's your light way: but I would 

make it death 
For any male tiling but to peep at us." 

Petulant she spoke, and at herself 

she laiigh'd ; 
A rose-bud set with little wilful thorns. 
And sweet as English air could make 

her, she : 
But Walter hail'd a score of names 

upon her, 
And " petty Ogress," and " ungrateful 

Puss," 
And swore he long'd at College, only 

long'd, 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed ; they 

talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; 



They lost their weeks ; they vcxt the 
souls o^ -.-ans ; • 

They rode ; they betted ; made a hun- 
dred friends. 

And caught the blossom of the flying 
terms, 

But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian- 
place, 

The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he 
spoke, 

Part banter, part affection, 

" True," shiC said, 

" We doubt not that. O yes, you 
miss'd us much. 

I'll stake my ruby ring upon it you 
did." 

She held it out; and as a parrot 

turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye, 
And takes a lady's finger with all care. 
And bites it for true heart and not for 

harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she 

shriek'd 
And wrung it. *' Doubt my word 

again ! " he said. 
" Come, listen ! here is proof that you 

were miss'd: 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to 

read. 
And there we took one tutor as to 

read : 
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube and 

square 
Were out of season : never man, I 

think, 
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he : 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty 

feet. 
And our long walks were stript as bare 

as brooms, [all 

We did but talk you over, pledge you 
In wassail : often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of 

home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charxles and riddles as at Christmas 

here, 
And -what's my iJwught and xuhen ai^ 

ivhcr^ a.nd hciv. 



THE PRINCESS. 



123 



And often told a tale from mouth to 

mouth 
As here at Christmas." 

She remember'd that : 
A pleasant game, she thought: she 

liked it more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the 

rest. 
But these — what kind of tales did men 

tell men, 
She wonder'd, by themselves ? 

A half-disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her 

lips : 
And Walter nodded at me; "'He 

began, 
The rest would follow, each in turn ; 

and so 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind? 

what kind } 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas sole- 
cisms, 
Seven-headed monsters onlv made to 

kill 
Time by the fire in winter." 

" Kill him now, 
The tyrant ! kill him in the summer 

too," 
Said Lilia ; " Why not now," the 

maiden Aunt. 
" Whv not a summer's as a winter's 

tale? 
A tale for summer as befits the time, 
And something it should be to suit the 

place. 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, 
Grave, solemn ! " 

Walter warp'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I 

laugh'd [mirth 

And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling 
And echo like a ghostly woodpecker. 
Hid in the ruins; till the maiden Aunt 
(A little sense of wrong had touch'd 

her face 
With color) turn'd to me with " As 

you will ; 
Heroic if you will, or what you will, 
Ur be yourself your hero if you will." 
" Take Lilia, then, for heroine," 

clamor'd he, 



" And make her some great Princess, 

six feet high, 
Grand, epic, homicidal ; and be you 
The Prince to win her ! " 

"Then follow me, the Prince," 
I answer'd, " each be hero in his turn ! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a 

dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as re- 
quired — 
But something made to suit with Time 

and place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade, 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange ex- 
periments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had 

burnt them all — 
This -were a medley ! we should have 

him back 
Who told the 'Winter's tale' to do it 

for us. 
No matter : we will say whatever 

comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will, 
From time to time, some ballad or a 

song 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began, 
And the rest follow'd : and the women 

sang 
Between the rougher voices of the 

men, 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : 
And here I give the story and the 

songs. 

I. 

A Prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in 

face, 
Of temper amorous, as the first of May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a 

girl, 
For on my cradle shone the Northern 

star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our 
house. 
Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grand- 
sire burnt 



124 



THE PRINCESS, 



Because he cast no shadow, had fore- 
told, 
Dying, that none of all our blood 

should know 
The shadow from the substance, and 

that one 
Should come to fight with shadows and 

to fall. 
For so, my mother said, the story ran. 
And, truly, waking dreams were, more 

or less, 
An old and strange affection of the 

house. 
Myself too had weird seizures, Keaven 

knows what : 
On a sudden in the midst of men and 

day. 
And while I walk'd and talk'd as here- 
tofore, 
I seem'd to move among a world of 

ghosts, 
And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 
Our great court-Galen poised his gilt- 
head cane. 
And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd 

" catalepsy." 
My mother pitying made a thousand 

prayers ; 
My mother was as mild as any saint, 
Half-canonized by all that iook'd on 

her, 
So gracious was her tact and tender- 
ness ; 
But my good father thought a king a 

king ; 
He cared not for the affection of the 

house ; 
He held his sceptre like a pedant's 

wand 
To lash offence, and with long arms 

and hands 
Reach'd out, and pick'd offenders from 

the mass 
For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been, 
While life was yet in bud and blade, 

betroth'd 
To one, a neighboring Princess : she 

to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless 
calf 



At eight years old ; and still from time 
to time 

Came murmurs of her beauty from the 
South, 

And of her brethren, youths of puis- 
sance ; 

And still I wore her picture by my 
heart. 

And one dark tress; and all around 
them both 

Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees 
about their queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that I 

should wed. 
My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her : these 

brought back 
A present, a great labor of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague as 

wind : 
Besides, they saw the king ; he took 

the gifts ; 
He said there was a compact ; that was 

true : 
But then she had a will ; was he to 

blame .-• 
And maiden fancies ; loved to live 

alone 
Among her women ; certain, would 

not wed. 

That morning in the presence room 

1 stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two 

friends : 

The first, a gentleman of broken means] 
(His father's fault) but given to starts 

and bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heartJ 
And almost my half-self, for still we' 

moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and 

eye. 
Now, while they spake, I saw my 

father's face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising 

moon, 
Inflamed with wrath: he started on his 

feet. 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, 

and rent 



THE PRINCESS. 



J2S 



The wonder of the loom thro' warp 
and woof 

From skirt to skirt ; and at the last he 
sware 

That he would send a hundred thou- 
sand men, 

And bring her in a whirlwind; then he 
chew'd 

The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and 
cook'd his spleen, 

Communing with his captains of the 
war. 
At last I spoke. " My father, let me 

go- 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king, 
Whom all men rate as kind and hos- 
pitable : 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once 

seen, 
W'hate'er my grief to find her less than 

fame, 
May rue the bargain made.* And 

Florian said ; 
" I have a sister at the foreign court, 
Who moves about the Princess ; she, 

you know, 
Who wedded with a nobleman from 

thence : 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, 
The lady of three castles in that land : 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted 

clean." 
And Cyril whisper'd; ^'Take me with 

you too." 
Then laughing " what, if these weird 

seizures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one 

near 
To point you out the shadow from the 

truth ! 
Take me : I'll serve you better in a 

strait ; 
I grate on rusty hinges here : " but 

"No!" 
Roar'd the rough king, " you shall not ; 

we ourself 
W'ill crush her prett}- maiden fancies 

^ dead 
In iron gauntlets : break the council 

up." 



But when the council broke, I rose 

and past 
Thro' the wild woods that hung about 

the town ; 
Found a still place, and pluck'd her 

likeness out ; 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lyinsr 

bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd 

trees ; 
What were those fancies.' wherefore 

break her troth ? 
Proud look'd the lips : but while I 

meditated 
A wind arose and rush'd upon the 

South, 
And shook the songs, the whispers, and 

Ihe shrieks 
Of the wild woods together ; and a 

Voice 
Went with it, Follow, follow, thou 

shalt win." 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that 

month [court 

Became her golden shield, I stole from 
With Cyril and with Florian, unper- 

ceived. 
Cat-footed thro' the town and half in 

dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our 

backs 
With Ho ! from some bay-window 

shake the night ; [walls, 

But all v.as quiet : from the bastion'd 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we 

dropt, 
And flying reach'd the frontier ; then 

we crost 
To a livelier land ; and so by tilth and 

grange. 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wil- 
derness. 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with 

towers, 
And in the imperial palace found the 

king. 

His name was Gama; crack'd and 
small his voice, 
But bland the smile that like a wrink* 
ling wind 



THE PRINCESS. 



On glassy water drove his cheek in 

lines ; 
A little dry old man, without a star, 
Not like a kmg : three days he feasted 

us. 
And on the fourth I spake of why we 

came, 
And my betroth'd. " You do us, 

Prince," he said. 
Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, 
" All honor. We remember love our 

selves 
In our sweet youth : there did a com- 
pact pass [mony — 
Long summers back, a kind of cere- 
I think the year in which our olives 

fail'd. 
I would you had her, Prince, with all 

my heart, 
With my full heart : but there were 

widows here, 
Two widows, lady Psyche, lady 

Blanche ; 
They fed her theories, in and out of 

place 
Maintaining that with equal husbandry 
The woman were an equal to the man. 
They harp'd on this ; with this our 

banquets rarg ; 
Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots 

of talk , 
Nothing but this; my very ears were 

hot 
To hear them : knowledge, so my 

daughter held, 
Was all in all; they had but been, she 

thought, 
As children ; they must lose the child, 

assume 
The woman : then, Sir, awful odes she 

wrote. 
Too awful, gure, for what they treated 

of. 
But all she is and does is awful ; odes 
About this losing of the child; and 

rhymes 
And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 
Beyond all reason : these the women 

sang ; 
And they that know such things — I 

sought but peace ; 



No critic I — would call them master- 
pieces ; 
They master'd me. At last she begg'd 

a boon 
A certain summer-palace which I have 
Hard by your father's frontier : I said 

no. 
Yet being an easy man, gave it ; and 

there. 
All wild to found an University 
For maidens, on the spur she fled ; 

and more 
We know not, — only this : they see no 

men, 
Not ev'n her brother Arac, nor the 

twins 
Her brethren, tho' they love her, look 

upon her 
As on a kind of paragon ; and I 
(Pardon me saying it) were much 

loathe to breed 
Dispute betwixt myself and mine : but 

since 
(And I confess with rigKt) you think 

me bound 
In some sort, I can give you letters to 

her ; 
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate your 

chance 
Almost at naked nothing." 

Thus the king ; 
And I, tho* nettled that he seem'd to 

slur 
With garrulous ease and oily courte* 

sies [frets 

Our formal compact, yet, not less (all 
But chafing me on fire to find my 

bride) 
Went forth again with both my friends. 

We rode 
M^ny a long league back to the north. 

At last 
From hills, that look'd across a land 

of hope. 
We dropt with evening on a rustic! 

town 
Set in a gleaming river's crescent* 

curve, 
Close at the boundary of the liberties; 
There enter'd an old hostel, call'd 

mine host 



THE PRINCESS. 



127 



To council, piled him with his richest 

wines, 
And show'd the late-writ letters of the 

king. 
He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble ; then ex- 

claim'd 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go : but as his brain 
Began to mellow, " If the king," he 

said, 
•' Had given us letters, was he bound 

to speak? 
The king would bear him out \ " and 

at the last — 
The summer of the vnie in all his 

veins — 
'• Xo doubt that he m.'ght make it 

worth his while. • 
She once had past that way ; he heard 

her speak ; 
She scared hmi ; l^fe ; he never saw 

the l.ke ; 
She look'd as grand as doom'day and 

as grave : 
And he, he reverenced h.s Iiegelady 

there; 
He aV^avs made a point to post with 

m .r- s ; 
H;s daughter and his housemaid were 

the boys ; 
The land he understood for mi'es 

about 
Was ti.i'd by women, all the swine 

weie sows, 
And ail the dngs — " 

But while he jested thus 
A thought flaoh'd thro' nie wiiich I 

c'.oth d in act, 
Remembering how we three presented 

Ma;d 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of 

feast, 
In masque or pageant at my father's 

court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female 

gear; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to 

shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, 

holp 



To lace us up, till, each, in maiden 

plumes 
We rustled: h:m we gave a costly 

bribe 
To guerdon silence mounted our good 

steeds, 
And boialy ventured on the liberties. 

We follow'd up the river as we rod3, 

And rode till midnight when the col- 
lege lights 

Began to glitter firefiv-like in copse 

And linden alley ; then we past an 
arch. 

Whereon a woman-statue rose with 
wings 

From four wing'd horses dark against 
the stars ; 

And seme inscription ran aiong the 
front, 

But deep in shsdcw; further on we 
gain'd 

A l.ttie street half garden and half 
house ; 

But scarce could hear each other speak 
fcr r.cise 

Of clocks ard chimes, like silver ham- 
mers fa.-.ng 

On silver anv.ls, and the splash and 
stir 

Of fountains spouted up and shower- 
ing down 

In mtohes of the jasmine and the 
ro e : 

And a.I about us peal'd the nightin- 
gale. 

Rapt m her song, and careless of the 
snare. 

There stood a bust of Pallas for a 

sign, 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like 

Heaven and Earth 
With constellation and with continent, 
Above an entry riding in, we cali'd; 
A plump-arm'd Ostleress and a stable 

wench 
Came running at the call, and help'd 

us down. 
Then stept a buxom hostess forth, 

and sail'd, 



128 



THE PRINCESS. 



Full blown, before us into rooms which 

gave 
Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In laurel : her we ask'd of that and 

this, 
And who were tutors. " Lady Blanche," 

she said, 
"And Lady Psyche." "Which was 

prettiest, 
Best-natured ? " " Lady Psyche." 

" Hers are we," 
One voice, we cried ; and I sat down 

and wrote, 
In such a hand as when a field of corn 
Bows all its ears before the roaring 

East : 

" Three ladies of the Northern em- 
pire pray 

Your Highness would enroll them with 
your own, 

As Lady Psyche's pupils." 

This I seal'd : 

The seal was Cupid bent above a 
scroll, 

And o'er his head Uranian Venus 
hung, 

And raised the blinding bandage from 
his eyes : 

I gave the letter to be sent with dawn : 

And then to bed, v/here half in doze I 
seem'd 

To float about a glimmering night, and 
watch 

A full sea glazed with muffled moon- 
light, swell 

On some dark shore just seen that it 
was rich. 



As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O we fell out I knov/ not wh}', 
And kiss'd again with tears. 

For when we came where lies the 

child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave. 

We kiss'd again with tears. 



XL 



At break of day the College Portress 

came : 
She brought us Academic silks, in hue 
The lilac, with a silken hood to each, 
And zoned with gold ; and now when 

these were on, 
And we as rich as moths from dusk 

cocoons. 
She, curtseying her obeisance, let us 

know 
The Princess Ida waited : out we paced, 
I first, and following thro' the porch 

that sang 
All round with laurel, issued in a 

court 
Compact of lucid marbles, boss'd with 

lengths 
Of classic frieze, with ample awnings 

gay 
Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns 

of flowers. 
The Muses and the Graces, group'd in 

threes, 
Enring'd a billowing fountain in the 

midst ; 
And here and there on lattice edges 

lay 
Or book or lute ; but hastily we past, 
And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 



There at a board by tome and paper 
sat. 

With two tame leopards couch'd be- 
side her throne, 

All beauty conjpass'd in a female form, 

The Princess ; liker to the inhabitant 

Of some clear planet close upon the 
Sun, 

Than our man's earth ; such eyes were 
in her head. 

And so much grace and power, breath- 
ing down 

From over her arch'd brows, with 
every turn 

Lived thro' her to the tips of her long 
hands, 

And to her feet. She rose her height, 
and said : 



THE PRINCESS. 



129 



" We give you welcome : not with- 
out redound 
Of use and glory to yourselves ye 
P come, * 

i The first-fruits of the stranger : after- 
I time, 

■ And that full voice which circles round 
•. the grave, 

' Will rank you nobly, mingled up with 
^- me. 

What ! are the ladies of your land so 

tall ? " 
" We of the court," said Cyril. " From 

the court," 
She answer'd, " then ye know the 

Prince ? " and he : 
" The climax of his age ! as tho' there 

were 
One rose in all the world, your High- 
ness that. 
He worships your ideal." She replied : 
" We scarcely thought in our own hall 

to hear 

This barren verbiage, current among 

men, [ment. 

_JLike coin, the tinsel clink of compli- 

Your flight from out your bookless 

wilds would seem 
As arguing love of knowledge and of 
X' power ; 

\;' Your language proves you still the 
^ child. Indeed, 
We dream not of him : when we set 

out hand 
To this great work, we purposed with 

ourself 
Never to wed. You likewise will do 

well, 
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and 

fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of men, 

that so, 
Some future time, if so indeed you will, 
You may with those self-styled our 

lords ally 
Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale 
with scale." 

At those high words, we, conscious 
of ourselves, 
Perused the matting ; then an officer 

9 



Rose up, and read the statutes, such as 

these : 
Not for three years to correspond with 

home ; 
Not for three years to rross the lib- 
erties: 
Not for three years to speak with any 

men ; 
And many more, which hastily sub- 
scribed, 
We. enter'd 9n the boards ; and 

'' Now," she cried, 
" Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. 

Look, our hall ! 
Our statues 1 — not of those that men 

desire, 
Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode, 
Nor stunted squaws of West or East ; 

but she 
That taught the Sabine how to rule, 

and she 
The foundress of the Babylonian wall, 
The Carian Artemisia strong in war. 
The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, 
Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 
That fought Aurelian, and the Roman 

brows 
Of Agrippina. Dwell with these and 

lose 
Convention, since to look on noble 

forms 
Makes noble thro' the sensuous organ- 
ism 
That -which is higher. O lift your 

natures up ; 
Embrace our aims : work out your 

freedom. Girls, 
Knowledge is now no more a fountain 

seal'd : 
Drink deep, until the habits of the 

slave. 
The sins of emptiness gossip and spite 
And slander, die. Better not be at 

all 
Than not be noble. Leave us : you 

may go : 
To-day 'the Lady Psyche will harangue 
The fresh arrivals of the week before ; 
For they press in from all the prov' 

inces, 
And fill the hive." 



I30 



Tim PRINCESS. 



She spoke, and bowing waved 
Dismissal : back again we crost the 

court 
To Lady Psyche's : as we enter'd in, 
There sat along the forms, Uke morn- 
ing doves 
That sun their milky bosoms on the 

thatch, 
A patient range of pupils ; she herself 
Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 
A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon- 
eyed. 
And on the hither side, or so she 

look'd, 
Of twenty summers. At her left, a 

child. 
In shining draperies, headed like a star. 
Her maiden babe, a double April old, 
Aglaia slept. We sat ; the Lady 

glanced : 
Then Florian, but no livelier than the 

dame 
That whisper'd " Asses' ears " among 

the sedge, 
" My sister." " Comely too by all 

that's fair," 
Said Cyril. " O hush, hush ! " and she 
began. 

*• This world was once a fluid haze of 

light, 
Till toward the centre set the starry 

tides, 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling 

cast 
The planets : then the monster, then 

the mm ; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in 

skins. 
Raw from the prime, and crushing down 

his mate ; 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and 

here 
Among the lowest." 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eye view of all the ungracious 

past ; 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of 

those 



That lay at wine with Lar and Lu- 

cumo ; 
Ran down the Persian, Gregian, Roman 

lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state ii; 

each, 
How far from just ; till, warming witl 

her theme, 
She ful mined out her scorn of lawx 

Salique 
And little-footed China, touch'd on 

Mahomet 
With much contempt, and came to 

chivalry : 
When some respect, however slight, 

was paid 
To woman, superstition all awry : 
However then commenced the dawn : 

a beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a land 
Of promise; fruit would follow. Deep, 

indeed, 
Their debt of thanks to her who first 

had dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and 

assert 
None lordlier than themselves but that 

which made 
Woman and man. She had founded ; 

they must build. 
Here might they learn whatever men 

were taught : 
Let them not fear : some said their 

heads were less : 
Some men's were small ; not they the 

least of men ; 
For often fineness compensated size : 
Besides the brain was like the hand, 

and grew 
With using ; thence the man's, if more, 

was more ; 
He took advantage of his strength to be 
First in the field : some ages had been 

lost ; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her 

life 
Was longer ; and albeit their glorious 

names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since 

in truth 



THE PRINCESS. 



131 



The highest is the measure of the man, 
And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, 
Nor those horn-handed breakers of the 

glebe. 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 
With woman: and in arts of govern- 
ment 
Elizabeth and others ; arts of war 
The peasant Joan and others ; arts of 

grace 
Sappho and others vied with any man: 
And, last not least, she who had left 

her place, 
And bow'd her state to them, that they 

might grow 
To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 
In the arms of leisure, sacred from the 

blight 
Of ancient influence and scorn ? 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future ; " everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the 

hearth, 
Two in the tangled business of the 

world. 
Two in the liberal offices of life, 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound 

the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the 

mind : 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, 

more : 
And everywhere the broad and boun- 
teous Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those 

rare souls, 
Poets, w'hose thoughts enrich the blood 

of the world." 

She ended here, and beckon'd us : 
the rest 

Parted ; and, glowing full-faced wel- 
come, she 

Began to address us, and was moving 
on 

In gratulation, till as when a boat 

Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, all 
her voice 

^'altering and fluttering in her throat, 
she cried, 



" My brother ! " " Well, my sister." 

" O," she said, 
" What do you here ? and in this dress ? 

and these ? 
Why who are these ? a wolf within the 

fold ! 
A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gra-' 

cious to me ! 
A plot, a plot, a plot to ruin all 1 " 
" No plot, no plot," he answer'd. 

" Wretched boy. 
How saw you not the inscription on 

the gate, 
Let no man enter in on pain of 

DEATH > '' 

"And if I had," he answer'd, "who 

could think 
The softer Adams of your Academe, 
O sister, Sirens tho' they be, Avere such 
As chanted on the blanching bones of 

men .? " 
" But you will find it otherwise," she 

sa'id. 
" Vou jest : ill jesting with edge-tools! 

my vow 
Binds me to speak, and O that iron 

will. 
That axelike edge unturnable, our 

Head, 
The Princess." " Well then. Psyche, 

take my life, 
And nail me like a weasel on a grange 
Yox warning : bury me beside the gate, 
And cut this epitaph above my bones; 
Here lies a b}' other by a sister slain. 
All for the edmnion good of %vo77ianki7id} 
" Let me die too," said Cyril, " having 

seen 
And heard the Lady Psyche." 

I struck in : 
" Albeit so mask'd. Madam, I love the 

truth ; 
Receive it j and in me behold the 

Prince 
Your countryman, affianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida : here, for here she 

was, 
And thus (what other way was left ?) I 

came." 



132 



THE PRIA'CESS, 



If any, this ; but none. V\'hate'er I 
was 

L)isrooted, what I am is grafted here. 

i\ffianced, Sir ? love whispers may not 
bi eat lie 

Within this vestal hmit, and how 
should I, 

Who am not mine, say, live : the thun- 
derbolt 

Hangs silent ; but prepare: I speak; 
It falls." 

" Yet pause,^' I said : " for that in- 
scription there, 

I think no more of deadly lurks therein, 

Than in a clapper clapping in a garth. 

To scare the fowl from fruit: if more 
there be, 

If more and acted on, what follov.'s ? 
war ; 

Your own work marr'd : for this your 
Academe, 

V.'hichever side be Yictor, in the hal- 
loo 

Will topple to the trumpet down, and 
pass [gild 

With all fair theories only made to 

A stormless summer." " Let the Prin- 
cess judge 

Of that," she said : " farewell, Sir— 
and to you. 

I shudder at the sequel, but I go." 

" Are you that Lady Psyche," I re- 

join'd, 
" The fifth in line from that old Flo- 

rian, 
Yet hangs his portrait in my father's 

hall 
(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle 

brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he 

fell, 
And all else fled : we point to it, and 

we say, 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not 

cold, 
But branches current yet in kindred 

veins." 
" Are you that Psvche," Florian added, 
; " she 



With whom I sanpj about the morning 

hills. 
Flung ball, fiew kite, and raced the 

purple fly, 
And snared the squirrel of the glen .- 

are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throb- 
bing brow, 
To smooth my pillow, mix the foaming 

draught 
Of fever, tell m.e pleasant tales, and 

read 
My sickness down to happy dreams .^ 

are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in 

one .'' 
You were that Psyche, but what are 

you now "i " 
j " You are that Psyche," Cyril said, 

" for whom 
I would be that forever which T seem, 
Woman, if I might sit beside your 

fee^, 
And glean your scatter'd sapience." 

Then once more, 
"Are you that Lady Psyche," I began, 
' That on her bridal morn before she 

past 
From all her old companions, when the 

king 
Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that an- 
cient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the 

southern hills ; 
That were there any of our people 

there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them : look ! for such are 

these and I." 
" Are you that Psyche," Florian ask'd, 

" to whom, 
In gentler days, your arrow-wounded 

fawn 
Came flying while you sat beside the 

well? 
The creature laid his muzzle on your 

lap, 
And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, 

and the blood 
Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you 

wept. 



THE PRINCESS. 



^ZZ 



That was fawn's blood, not l^rother's, 
yet you wept. 

O by the bright head of my little niece, 

You were that Psyche, and what arc 
you now ? " 

" You are that Tsyche/' Cyril said 
again, 

•• Tlie mother of the sweetest little 
maid, 
i.at ever crow'd for kisses." 

" Out upon it ! " 

She answer'd, "peace ! and why should 
I not play 

The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 

The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind } 

Him you call great; he for the com- 
mon weal, 

The fading politics of mortal Rome, 

As I might slay this child, if good need 
were, 

Slew both his sons : and I, shall I, on 
whom 

The secular emancipation turns 

Of half this world, be swerved from 
right to save 

A prince, a brother ? a little will I 
yield. 

Best so, perchance, for us, and well for 
you. 

O hard, when love and duty clash ! I 
fear 

My conscience will not count me fleck- 
less ; yet — 

Hear my conditions : promise (other- 
wise 

You perish) as you came to slip away, 

To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be 
said, 

These women were too barbarous, 
would not learn ; 

Tiiey fled, who might have shamed us : 
promise, all." 

What could we else, we promised 
each ; and she, 
Like some wild creature newly caged, 

commenced 
A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian; holding out her lily arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling faint- 
ly said : 



' 1 kncv*' you at the first ; tho' you have 

grown 
\iy\\ scarce have alter'd: I am sad and 

^'-^^ 
1 o see you, Florian. / give thee to 

death, 

My brother ! it was duty spoke, not L 

My needful seeming harshjiess, pardon 

it. 

Our mother, is she well.^" 

V'/ith that she kiss'd 

His forehead, then, a moment after, 

clung 
About him, and betwixt them blos- 

som'd up \ 

From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of 

the hearth, 
And far allusion, till the gracious dews 
Beg:.n to glisten and to fall : and 

while 
They stood, so rapt, wc gazing, came a 

voice, 
" I brought a message here from Lady 

Blanche." 
Back started she, and turning round we 

saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where 

she stood, 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock. 
A rosy blonde, and in a-college gown, 
That clad her like an April daffodilly 
(Her mother's color) with her lips 

a])art, 
And all her thoughts as fair within her 

eyes, [float 

As bottom agates seen to wave and 
\\\ crystal currents of clear morning 

seas. 

So stood tiiat same fair creature at 

the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, " Ah — Melissa — 

you ! 
You heard us ? " and Melissa, '• O 

pardon me ! 
I heard, I could not help it,^ did not 

wi^h : 
But dearest Lady, pray vou fear me not, 

think : " ' " 

breast. 



134 



THE PRIXCESS. 



To give three gallant gentlemen to 

death." [two 

" I trust you," said the other, " for we 

Were always friends, none closer, ehn 

and vine : 
But yet your mother's jealous temper- 
ament — 
Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, 

or prove 
The Dana'id of a leaky vase, for fear 
'i'his whole foundation ruin, and I lose 
My honor, these their lives." ''Ah, 

fear me not," 
Replied Melissa ; " no— I would not 

tell, I 

No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness, 
No, not to answer, Madam, all those j 
hard things i 

That Sheba came to ask of Solomon." 
" Be it so," the other, '• that we still ; 
may lead ' 

The new light up, and culminate in 
peace, I 

For Solomon may come to Sheba yet." , 
Said Cyril, " Madam, he the wisest man ' 
Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls 
Of Lebanonian cedar: nor should you 
(Tho' Madam yoii should answer, we 
would ask) [came 

Less w^elcome find among us, if you 
Among us, debtors for our lives to you, 
Myself for something more." He said 

not what. 
But " Thanks," she answer'd, " go : we 

have been too long 
Together: keep your hoods about the 

face; 
They do so that affect abstraction here. 
Speak little; mix not with the rest; 

and hold 
Your jDromise ; all, I trust, may yet be 
well" 

We turn'd to go, but Cyril took the 
child, 

And held her round the knees against 
his waist, 

And blew the swoll'n cheek of a trum- 
peter, 

While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, 
and the child 



Push'd her flat hand against his face 

and laugh'd ; 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we strolled 
For half the day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we sat, 

we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture 

slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With flawless demonstration ; follow'd 

then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment. 
With scraps of thunderous Epic lilted 

out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels five-words- 

long 

That on the stretcii'd forefinger of all 

Time 
Sparkle forever : then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state, 
The total chronicles of man, the mind. 
The morals, something of the frame, 

the rock. 
The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, 

the flower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest, 
; And whatsoever can be taught and 
I known ; 

Till like three horses that have broken 

fence, 
! And glutted all night long breast-deep 
i in corn, 

I We issued gorged with knowledge, and 
; I spoke : 

i " Why Sirs, thev do all this as well as 
i we." ^ _■ 

" They hunt old tnals,'' said Cyril, 

"very well ; 
But when did woman ever yet Invent? " 
" Ungracious ! " answer'd Florian, 

" have you learnt 
No more from Psyche's lecture, you 

that talk'd 
The trash that made me sick, and al- 
most sad ? " 
" O trash/' he said, " but with a kernel 

in it. 
Should I not call her wise, who made 
me wise .'' 



THE PRINCESS. 



135 



And learnt ? I learnt more from lier in 

a flash, 
Than if m}' brainpan were an emnty 

hull, 
And every Muse tumbled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these 

halls, 
And round these halls a thousand baby 
* loves 
Fly twanging headless arrows at the 

hearts, 
Whence follows many a vacant pang ; 

but O 
With me, Sir, enter'd in the bigger boy, 
The Head of all the golden-shafted firm, 
The long linib'd lad that had a Psyche 

too ; [now 

Me cleft me thro' the stomacher ; and 
What think you of it, Florian ? do I 

chase 
The substance or the shadow ? will it 

hold ? 
T have no sorcerer's malison on me, 
No ghostly haun tings like his High- 
ness. I 
Flatter myself that always everywhere 
I know the substance when I see it. 

well, 
xA.re castles shadows ? Three of them .■' 

is she ' [not, 

The sweet proprietress a shadow ? If 
Shall those three castles patch my tat- 

ter'd coat ? 
For dear are those three castles to my 

wants, 
And dear is sister Psyche to my heart, 
And two dear things are one of double 

worth, 
And much I might have said, but that 

my zone 
Unmann'dme: then the Doctors ! O to 

hear 
The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty 

plants 
Imljihing ! once or twice I thought to 

roar, 
To break my chain, to shake my mane : 

but thou, 
Modulate me. Soul of mincing mimicry ! 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon my 

throat; 



Abase those eyes that ever loved to 

meet 
Star-sisters answering under crescent 

brows ; 
A-bate the stride, which speaks of man, 

and loose 
K flying charm of blushes o'er this 

cheek, 
Where they like swallows coming out 

of time 
Will wonder why they came ; but hark 

the bell 
For dinner, let us go !" 

And in we stream'd 
Among the columns, pacing staid and 

still 
By twos and threes, till all from end 

to end 
With beauties every shade of brown 

and fair, 
In colors gayer than the morning mist, 
The long hall glitter'd like a bed of 

flowers. [wits 

Iiow might a man not wander from his 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I kept 

mine own 
Intent on her,' who rapt in glorious 

dreams, 
The second-sight of some Astraean age, 
Sat compass'd with professors ; they, 

the while, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and fro : 
A clamor thicken'd, mixt with inmost 

terms 
Of art and science : Lady Blanche 

alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest linea- 
ments, 
With all her Autumn tresses falsely 

brown, 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens : 

there 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and ohc 
In this hand held a volume as to read. 
And smoothed a peacock down with 

that : 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by. 
Or under arches of the marble bridcre 



136 



THE PRIN€ESS. 



Hung, shadow'd from the heat : some 

hid and sought 
In the orange thickets : others tost a 

ball 
Above the fountain-jets, and back again 
With laughter : others lay about the 

lawns, 
Of the older sort, and murmur'd that 

their May 
Was passing : \Yhat was learning unto 

them ? 
They wish'd to marry ; they could rule 

a house ; 
Men hated learned women : but we 

three 
Sat muffled like the Fates ; and often 

came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity, 
That harm'd not : then day droopt ; 

the chapel bells 
Call'd us : we left the walks ; we mixt 

with those 
Six hundred maidens clad in purest 

white, 
Before two streams of flight from wall 

to wall. 
While the great organ almost burst his 

pipes, 
Groaning for power, and rolling thro' 

the court 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies, 
The work of Ida, to call down from 

Heaven 
A blessing on her labors for the world. 



vSweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go. 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty 

one, sleeps. 
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest, 



Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon : 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty 
one, sleep. 

HI. 

Morn in the white wake of the 

morning star 
Came furrowing all the orient into gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with 

care 
Descended to the court that lay three 

parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were 

touch'd 
Above the darkness from their native 

East. 

There while we stood beside the 

fount and watch'd 
Or seem'd to w-atch the dancing bub- 
ble, approach'd 
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of 

sleep, 
Or grief, and glowing round her dewy 

eyes 
The circled Iris of a night of tears ; 
" And fly," she cried, " O fly, while yet 

you may ! 
My mother knows : " and when I ask'd 

her how," 
" My fault," she wept, *' my fault ! and 

yet not mine ; 
Yet mine in part, O hear me, pardon 

me. 
My mother, 'tis her wont from night to 

night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have been 

the Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms ; 
And so it was agreed when first they 

came ; 
But Lady Psyche was the right hand 

now, 
And she the left, or not, or seldom 

used; 
Hers more than half the students, all 

the love. 
And so last night she fell to canvass 

you : 



"HE PRINCESS. 



^37 



''Her countrywomen ! she did not envy 

her. 
Who ever saw such wild barbarians ? 
Girls ? — more like men ! " and at these 

words the snake, 
My secret, seem'd to stir within my 

breast ; 
And O, Sirs, could I help it, but my 

cheek 
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx 

eye 
To fix and make me hotter, till she 

laugh'd : 
" O marvellously modest maiden, you ! 
Men ! girls, like men I why, if they had 

been men 
You need not set your thoughts in 

rubric thus « 

For wholesome comment." Pardon, I 

am shamed 
That I must needs repeat for my excuse 
What looks so little graceful ; " men " 

(for still 
My mother went revolving on the word) 
" And so they are, — very like men in- 
deed — 
And with that woman closeted for 

hours ! " 
Then came these dreadful words out 

one by one, 
" Why — these — are — men :" I shud- 

der'd : " and you know it." 
" O ask me nothing," I said : " And 

she knows too. 
And she conceals it." So my mother 

clutch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word 

from me ; 
And now thus early risen she goes to 

inform 
The Princess : Lady Psyche will be 

crush' d ; 
Rut you may yet be saved, and there- 
fore fly : [go-" 
But heal me with your pardon ere you 

*' What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a 

blush ? " 
Said Cyril : "Pale one, blush again: 

than wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives away 



Yet let us breathe for one hour more in 

Heaven." 
He added, "lest some classic Angel 

speak 
In scorn of us, ' they mounted, Gany- 

medes. 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second 

morn.' 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us farther furlough : " and he 

went. 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, 

and thought 
He scarce would prosper. "Tell us," 

Florian ask'd, 
" How grew this feud betwixt the right 

and left." 
" O long ago," she said, " betwixt these 

two 
Division smoulders hidden : 'tis my 

mother. 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice : much I bear with 

her : 
I never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a 

fool ; 
And still she rail'd against the state o£ 

things ^ 

She had the care of Lady Ida's youth, 
And from the Queen's decease she 

brought her up. 
But when your sister came she won the 

heart 
Of Ida: they were still together, grew 
(For so they said themselves) inoscu- 
lated ; 
Consonant chords that shiver to one 

note; 
One mind in all things : yet my mother 

still 
Affirms your Psyche thieved her 

theories. 
And angled with them for her pupil's 

love : 
She calls her plagiarist ; I know not 

what : 
But I must go : I dare not tarry," and 

light. 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 



T38 



THE PRINCESS. 



Then murmur'd Florian, gazing after 

her: 
" An cpen-heartcd maiden, true and 

pure. 
If I could love, why this were she: how 

pretty 
Her blushing was, and how she blush'd 

again, 
As if to close with Cyiil's random wish : 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with 

erring pride. 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags 

in tow." 

" The crane," I said, " may chatter 

of the crane. 

The dove may murmur of the dove, but I 

An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 

My princess, O my prmcess ! true she 

errs, 
But in her own grand way ; being her- 
self 
Three times more noble than three- 
score of men, 
She sees herself in every woman else. 
And so she wears her error like a crown 
To bhnd the truth and me : for her, 

and her, 
Hebes are thev to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar; but — ah she — whene'er 

sRe moves 
The Samian irlere rises and she speaks 
A Memnon smitten with the morning 
Sun." 

So saying, from the court we paced, 

and gain'd 
The terrace ranged along the Northern 

front. 
And leaning there on those balusters, 

high 
Above the empurpled champaign, drank 

,. the gale 
That blown about the foliage under- 
neath, 
And sated with the innumerable rose, 
iieat balm upon our eyelids. Hither 

came 
Cyril, and yawning "O hard task," he 

cried ; 
" No fighting shadows here ! I forced a 

way 



Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and 

gnarl'd. 
Better to clear prime forests, heave and 

thump 
A league of street in summer solstice 

down, 
Than hammer at this reverend gentle- 
woman 
I knock'd and, bidden, enter'd ; found 

her there 
At point to move, and settled in her 

eyes 
The green malignant light of coming 

• storm. 
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well- 

oil'd. 
As man's could be : yet maiden-meek 

I pray'd 
Concealment : she demanded who we 

were, [fair, 

And why we came ? I fabled nothing 
But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand and 

eye. 
But when I dwelt upon your old affiance. 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the 

gate, 
And our three lives. True — we had 

limed ourselves, 
With open eyes, and we must take the 

chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well 

might harm 
The woman's cause. "Not more than 

now," she said, 
** So puddled as it is with favoritism." 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame 

might befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew : 
Her answer was, " Leave me to deal 

with that." 
I spoke of war to come and many 

deaths, 
And she replied, her duty was to speak, 
And duty duty, clear of conseauences. 
I grew discouraged, Sir, but since I 

knew 
No rock so hard but that a little wave 
May beat admission in a thousand 

years. 



THE PRINCESS. 



139 



}] recommenced : " Decide not ere you 
pause. 

I find you here but in the second place, 

Some say the third — the authentic 
foundress you. 

I offer boldly ; we will seat you highest : 

Wink at our advent : help my prince 
to gain 

I lis rightful bride, and here I promise 
you 

Some palace in our land, where you 
shall reign 

The head and heart of all our fair she- 
world, 

And your great name flow on with 
broadening time 

Forever." Well, she balanced this a 
little. 

And told me she would answer us to- 
day. 

Meantime be mute : thus much, nor 
more I-gain'd." 

He ceasing, came a message from 

the Head. 
" That afternoon the Princess rode 

to take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her? we should find 

the land 
Worth seeing ; and the river made a 

fall 
Out yonder ; " then she pointed on to 

where 
A double hill ran up his furrowy forks 
Beyond ' .hick-leaved platans of the 

vale. 

Agreed to this, the daj fled on thro' 

all 
Its range of duties to the appointed 

hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. 

She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the 

head. 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on 

one 
Of those tame leopar.ds. Kittenlike he 

roll'd 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew 

near : 



I gazed. On a sudden my strange 

seizure came 
Upon me, the weird vision of our house: 
The Princess Idaseem'd a hollow show, 
Pier gay-furr'd cats a painted fantasy, 
Her college and her maidens empty 

masks, 
And I myself the shadow of a dream. 
For all things were and were not. Vet 

1 felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and 

with awe ; 
Then from my breast the involuntary 

sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light 

of eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and 

shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following 

up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she said : 
" O friend, we trust that you esteem'd 

us not 
Too harsh to your companion yester- 

morn ; 
Unwillingly we spake." "No— not to 

her,'' 
I answer'd, " but to one of whom we 

spake 
Your Highness might have seem'd the 

thing you say." 
" Again } " she cried, " are you ambas- 
sadresses 
From him to me .'' we give you, being 

strange, 
A license ; speak, and let the topic die." 

I stammer'd that I knew him — could 
have wish'd — 
" Our king expects — was there no pre- 
contract .-• 
There is no truer-hearted — ah,you seem 
All he prefigured, and he could not see 
The bird of -assage flying south but 

long'd 
To follow : surely, if your Highness 

keep 
Your purport, you will shock him ev'n 
to death, 



140 



THE PRINCESS, 



Or baser courses, children of despair." 
" Poor boy," she said, " can he not 

read — no books ? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games? nor 

deals in that 
Which men delight in, martial exercise ? 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a 

girl ; 
As girls were once, as we ourself have 

been : 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt 

with them : 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun 

to do it, 
Being other — since we learnt our mean- 
ing here, 
To lift the woman's faH'n divinity, 
Ifpon an even pedestal with man" 

She paused, and added with a haugh 

tier smile : 
"And as to precontracts, we move, my 

friend, 
At no man's beck, but know ourseif and 

thee, [out 

Vashti, noble Vashti ! Summon'd 
She kept her state, and left the drunken 

king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the 
palms." 

" Alas your Highness breathes full 
East," I said, 
"On that which leans to you. I know 
the Prince, 

1 prize his truth : and then how vast a 

work 
To assail this gray pre-eminence of 

man ! 
You grant me license ; might I use it i* 

think, 
Ere half be done perchance your life 

may fail : 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your 

plan, 
And takes and ruins all ; and thus your 

pains 
May only make that footprintupon sand 
Which old-recurring waves of prejudice 
Resmooth to nothing : might I dread 

that you. 



With only Fame for spouse and your 

great deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and 

miss, 
Meanwhile, what every woman counts 

her due, 
Love, children, happiness ? " 

And she exclaim'd, 
" Peace, you young savage of the 

Northern wild ! 
What ! tho' your Prince's love were 

like a God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice ? 
You are bold indeed : we are not talk'd 

to thus : 
Yet v.'ill we say for children, would they 

grew 
Tike field-flowers everywhere ! we like 

them well : 
But children die ; and let me tell vou, 

girl, [(he ; 

Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot 
They with the sun and moon renew 

their light 
Forever, blessing those that look on 

them. 
Children — that men may pluck them 

from our hearts. 
Kill us with pit}', break us with our- 
selves — 
O — children — there is nothing upon 

earth [son 

More miserable than she that has a 
And sees him err : nor v^ould we work 

for fame ; 
Tho' she perhaps might reap the ap- 
plause of Great, 
Who learns the one rou STO whence 

after-hands 
May move the world, tho' she herself 

effect 
But little : wherefore up and act, nor 

shrink 
For fear our solid aim be dissipated 
By frail successors. YVould, indeed, 

we had been, 
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 
Of giants living, each, a thousand years, 
That we might see our own work out, 

and watch 
The sandy footprint harden into stone." 



THE PRINCESS. 



141 



I answer'd nothing, doubtful in my- 
self 

If that strange Poet-princess with her 
grand 

Imaginations might at all be won. 

And she broke out interpreting my 
thoughts 

" No doubt we seem a kind of mon- 
ster to you ; 
We are used to that : for women, up 

till this 
Crarap'd under worse than South-sea- 

isle taboo, 
Dwarfs of the gynaeceum, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot 

guess 
U^v much their welfare is a passion to 

us 
If we could give them surer, quicker 

proof — 
O if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches, than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death, 
We were as prompt to spring against 

the pikes. 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it. 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties." 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear ; 
And up we came to where the river 

sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on 

black blocks 
A breath of thunder. O'er it shook 

the woods. 
And danced the color, and, below, 

stuck out 
The bones of some vast bulk that lived 

and roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile 

and said, 
"As these rude bones to us, are we to 

her 
That will be." " Dare we dream of 

that." I ask'd, 
'* Which wrought u?, as the workman 

and his work. 
That practice betters ? " " How," she 

cried, " you love 
The metaphysics ! read and earn our 

prize, 



A golden broach : beneath an emerald 

plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock; our device; wrought to 

the life ; 
.She rapt upon her subject, he on her : 
For there are schools for all." " And 

yet," I said, 
" Methinks I have not found among 

them all [that," 

One anatomic." " Nay, we thought of 
She answer'd, " but it pleased us not : 

in truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids 

should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the 

living hound, 
And cram him with the fragments of 

the grave, 
Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm. 
Dabbling a shameless hand with shame- 
ful jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits : yet we know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this 

matter hangs : 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 
Nor willing men should come among 

us, learnt. 
For many weary moons before we came, 
This cvatt of healing. Were you sick, 

ourself 
Would tend upon you. To your ques- 
tion now, 
Which touches on the workman and 

his v.'ork. 
Let there be light and there was light : 

'tis so : 
For was, and is, and will be, are but is ; 
And all creation is one act at once, 
The birth of light : but we that are not 

all, 
As parts, can see but parts, now this, 

now that. 
And live, perforce, from thought to 

thought, and make 
One act a phantom of succession : thus 
Our weakness somehow shapes the 

shadow, Time ; 
But in the shadow will we work, and 

mould 



£42 



THE PRINCESS. 



The woman to the fuller day" 

She spake 
With kindled eyes : we rode a league 

beyond, [ing, 

And, o'er a bridge of pinewood cross- 
came 
On flowery levels underneath tlie crag, 
Full of all beauty. " O how sweet," I 

said, 
(For I was half-oblivious of my mask,) 
" To linger here with one that loved 

us." " Yea." 
She answer'd, " or with fair philoso- 
phies 
That lift the fancy; for indeed these 

fields 
Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian 

lawns, 
\Vhere paced the Demigods of old, 

and saw 
The soft white vapor streak the 

crowned towers 
Built to the Sun : " then, turning to her 

maids, 
" Pitch our pavilion here upon the 

sward ; 
Fay out the viands." At the word, they 

raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph ; here she 

stood, 
I'^ngirt with many a florid maiden-cheek, 
The woman-conqueror: woman con- 
quered there 
'i'he bearded Victor of ten-thousand 

hymns, 
And all the men mourned at his side : 

but we 
Set forth to climb ; then, climbing, Cyril 

kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
Wiih mine affianced. Many a little 

hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on 

the rocks, 
Many a light foot shone like a jewel set 
In the dark crag : and then we turn'd, 

we wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, 
Hammering and clinking, chattering 

stony names 



Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap 

and tuff. 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun 
Grew broader toward his death and fell, 

and all 
The rosy heiglUs came out above the 

lawns. 



The splendor falls on castle walls 

And sncwwy summits old in story ; 

The long light shakes across the 

lakes 

And the wild cataract leaps in 

glory. 

Blow, bugle^ blow, 5 et the wild echoes 

flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, 
dying, dying, 

O hark, O hear I how thin and clear. 
And thmner, clearer, farther going! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Flfland faintly blow- 
ing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens re- 
plying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, 
dying, dying 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 

flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, 
dying, dying. 



IV. 



" There sinks the nebulous star we 

call the Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound," 
Said Ida ; " let us down and rest : " 

and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled 

precipices, 
By every coppice-feather'd chasm and 

cleft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to 

where below 



THE PRINCESS. 



H3 



No bigger than a glow-worm shone the 

tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she 

lean'd on me, 
Descending : once or twice she lent 

her hand, 
And blissful palpitations in the blood, 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and 

fell. 

But when v.'e planted level feet, and 

dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in, 
There leaning deep in broider'd down 

we sank 
Our elbows: on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us 

glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and 

gold 

Then she, " Let some one sing to us : 

lightlier move 
The minutes fledged with music : " and 

a maid, 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, 

and sang. 

" Tears, idle tears, I know not what 

they m.ean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine 

despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the 

eves, 
In looking on the happy Autumn -fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no 

more. 

" Fresh as the first beam glittering 

on a sail. 
That brings our friends up from the 

under world, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the 

verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no 

more. 

" Ah, sad and strange as in dark sum- 
mer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 



The casement slowly grows a glimmer- 
ing square ; 

So sad, so strange, the days that are no 
more. 

*' Dear as remember'd kisses after 

death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 

feign'd 
On lips that are for others : deep as 

love, 
Deep as first love, and wild v.^ith all 

regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no 

more." 

She ended with such passion that the 

tear. 
She sang of, shook aiid fell, an erring 

pearl 
Lost in her bosom : but with some 

disdain 
Answer'd the Princess : " If indeed 

there haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the 

Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to 

men, 
Well needs it we should cram our ears 

with wool 
And so pace by: but thine are fancies 

hatch'd 
In silken-folded idleness ; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasioii lost. 
But trim our sails, and let old b\-gones 

be, 
While down the streams that float us 

each and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs 

of ice. 
Throne after throne, and molten on the 

waste 
Becomes a cloud ; for all things serve 

their time 
Toward that great year of equal mights 

and rights, 
Isor would I fight with iron laws, in 

the end 
Found golden : let the past be past ; 

let be 
Their cancell'd Babels : tho' the rough 

kex break 



144 



THE PRINCESS. 



The starr'd mosaic, and the wild goat 

hang 
Upon the shaft, and the wild fig-tree 

split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while 

we hear 
A trumpet in the distance pealing news 
0[ better, and Hope, a poising eagle, 

burns 
Above the unrisen morrow : " then to 

me, 
' Know you no song of your own land,' ' 

she said, 
" Not such as moans about the retro- 
spect, 
But deals with the other distance and 

the hues 
Of promise ; not a death's-head at the 

wine." 

Then I remember'd one myself had 
made, 

What time I watch'd the swallow wing- 
ing south 

From mine own land, part made long 
since, and part [far 

Now while I sang, and maidenlike as 

As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying 

South, [eaves, 

Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded 

And tell her, tell her what I tell to 

thee. 

*'• O tell her. Swallow, thou that 

knowest each. 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the 

South, 
And dark and true and tender is the 

North. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, if I could fol- 
low and light [trill. 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and 
And cheep and twitter twenty million 
loves. 

" O were I thou that she might take 

me in. 
And lay me on her bosom, and her 

heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I 

died. 



" Why lingereth she to clothe her 
I heart with love, 

, Delaying as the tender ash delays 
i To clothe herself, when all the' woods 
j are green.? 

" O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood 
! is flown : 

Say to her, I do but wanton in the 

South 
But in the North long since my nest is 
made. 

" O tell her, brief is life, but love is 

long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the 

North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the 

South. 

•' O Swallov.', flying from the golden 

woods, 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and 

make her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow 

thee." 

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at 

each, 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old 

time. 
Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd 

with alien lips. 
And knew not what they meant; for 

still my voice 
Rang false : but smiling, " Not for 

thee," she said, 
" O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil : marsh-divers, 

rather, maid. 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow- 
crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : 

and this 
A mere love-poem ! O for such, my 

friend, 
We hold them slight : they mind us of 

the time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. 

Knaves are men, 
That lute and flute fantastic tenderness, 
And dress the vietnn to the offering up, 



THE PRINCESS. 



145 



And paint the gates of Hell with Para- 
dise, 

And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 

Poor soul ! I had a maid of honor 
once ; 

She wept her true eyes blind for such 
a one, 

A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 

I loved her. Peace be with her. She 
is dead. 

So they blaspheme the muse ! but 
great is song 

Used to great ends : ourself have often 
tried 

Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have 
dash'd 

The passion of the prophetess; for 
song 

Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 

Of spirit, than to junketing and love. 

Love is it ? Would this same mock- 
love, and this bats; 

Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter 

Till all men grew to rate us at our 
worth, 

Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 

To be dandled, no, but living wills, and 
sphered 

Whole in ourselves and owed to none. 
Enough ! 

But now to leaven play with profit, you, 

Know you no song, the true growth of 
your soil, 

That gives the manners of your coun- 
trywomen .''"' 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptuous 
head with eyes 

Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 

Then while I dragg'd my brains for 
such a song, 

Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd flask 
had wrought, 

Or master'd by the sense of sport, 
began 

To troll a careless, careless tavern- 
catch 

Of Moll and Meg, and strange experi- 
ences 

Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded 
at him, 



i I frowning ; Psyche flush'd and wann'd 

and shook ; 
1 The lilylike Melissa droop'd her brows ; 
I " Forbear," the Princess cried ; " For- 
j bear, Sir," I ; 

j And heated thro' and thro' with wrath 
I and love, 

1 I smote him on the breast; he started 

up; 
There rose a shriek as of a city 

sack'd ; 
Melissa clamor'd, " Flee the death ; " 

" To horse," 
Said Ida; "home! to horse!" and 

fled, as flies 
A troop of snov.'y doves athwart the 

dusk, 
When some one batters at the dove- 
cote-doors, 
Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 
I With Florian, cursing Cyril, vexed at 

heart, 
In the pavilion : there like parting 

hopes 
I heard them passing from me : hoof 

by hoof, 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clang'd on the bridge; and then an- 
other shriek, 
" The Head, the Head, the Princess, 

O the Head ! " 
For blind with rage she miss'd the 

plank, and roll'd 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow 

to gloom ; 
There whirl'd her white robe like a 

blossom'd branch 
Rapt to the horrible fall ; a glance I 
. gave. 

No more; but woman-vested as I was 
Plunged; and the flood drew; yet I 

caught her ; then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left 
The weight of all the hopes of half the 

world. 
Strove to buffet to land in vain. A 

tree 
Was half-disrooted' from his place and 

stoop'd 
To drench his dark locks in the gur- 
gling wave 



146 



THE PRINCESS. 



Mid-channel. Right on this ^Ye drove 

and caught, 
And grasping down the boughs I 

gain'd the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmer- 

ingly group'd 
In the hollow bank. One reaching 

forward drew 
My burthen from mine arms ; they 

cried, " She lives ! " 
Thev bore her back into the tent ; 

but I, 
So much a kind of shame within me 

wrought, 
Not yet endured to meet her opening 

eyes, 
Nor found my friends; but pusla'd 

alone on foot 
(For since her horse was lost I left her 

mine) 
Across the woods, and less from Indian 

craft 
Than beelike instinct hiveward, found 

at length 
The garden portals. Two great stat- 
ues. Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
A weight of emblem, and betwixt were 

valves 
Of open-Vv'Oik in which the hunter 

rued 
His rash intrusion, manlike, but his 

brov\'s 
Had sprouted, and the branches there- 
upon 
Spread out at top, and grimly spiked 

the gates. 

A little space was left between the 

horns, 
Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top 

with pain, 
Dropt on the sward, and up the linden 

walks. 
And, tost on thoughts that changed 

from hue to hue, 
Now poring on the glow-worm, now 

the star, 
I paced the terrace till the bear had 

wheel'd 
Thro' a great arc his seven ."slow suns. 



A step 
Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 
Than female, moving thro' the uncer- 
tain gloom, 
Disturb'd me with the doubt "if this 

were she," 
But It was Florian. " Hist, O hist," 

he said, 
" They seek us : out so late is out of 

rules. 
Moreover ' Seize the strangers ' is the 

cry. 
How came you here .'' " I told him : 

" I," said he, 
" Last of the train, a moral leper, I 
To whom none spake, half-sick at 

heart, returned. 
Arriving all confused among the rest 
With hooded brows 1 crept into the 

hall, 
And, couch'd behind a Judith, under- 
neath [saw. 
The head of Holofernes peep'd and 
Girl after girl was call'd to trial : each 
Disclaim'd all knowledge of us ; last of 

all, 
Melissa : trust me. Sir, I pitied her. 
She, questioned if she knew us men, at 

first 
Was silent ; closer prest, denied it not 
And then, demanded if her mother 

knew, 
Or Psyche, she afifirm'd not, or denied : 
From whence the Royal mind, familiar 

with her, 
Easily gather'd either guilt. She sent 
For Psyche, but she was not there ; 

she call'd 
For Pysche's child to cast it from the 

doors ; 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her 

face to face ; [now .'' 

And I slipt out: but whither will you 
And where are Psyche, Cyril t both 

are fled : 
What, if together .' that were not so 

welL 
Would rather we had never come I I 

dread 
His wildness, and the chances of the 

dark." 



THE nUNCESS. 



H7 



" And yet," I said, " you wrong him 

more than I 
That struck him : this is proper to the 

clown, 
Tho' smock'd, or furr'd and purpled, 

still the clown, 
To harm the thing that trusts him, and 

to shame 
That which he says he loves : for Cyril, 

howe'er 
He deal in frolic, as to-night — the 

song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd in 

grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are nothe. 
He has a solid base of temperament : 
But as the water-lily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 
Tho' anchor'd to the bottom, such is 

he." 

Scarce had I ceased when from a 

tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 

" Names." 
He, standing still, was clutch'd; but I 

began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and 

race 
By all the fountains : fleet I was of 

foot : 
Before me shower'd the rose in flakes ; 

behind 
I heard the puff'd pursuer ; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded 

not. 
And .secret laughter tickled all my 

soul. 
At last I hook'd my ankle in a vine, 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on Iny face was caught and 

known. 

They haled us to the Princess where 
Mie sat 
High in the hall : above her droop' d 

a lamp. 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
Burn like the mystic fire on a mast- 
head, 



Prophet of storm : a hand-maid on 

each side 
Bow'd toward her, combing out her 

long black hair 
Damp from the river; and close be- 
hind her stood 
Eight daughters of the plough, stronger 

than men, 
Huge women blowzed with health, and 

wind, and rain. 
And labor. Each was like a Druid 

rock ; 
Or like a spire of land that stands 

apart 
Cleft from the main, and wail'd about 

with mews. 

Then, as we came, the crowd divid- 
ing clove 

An advent to the throne ; and there- 
beside, 

Half-naked, as if caught at once from 
bed 

And tumbled on the purple footcloth, 
lay 

The lily-shining child ; and on the left, 

Bow'd on her palms and folded up 
from wrong, 

Her round white shoulder shaken with 
her sobs, 

Melissa knelt ; but Lady Blanche erect 

Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. 

*'It was not thus, O Princess, in old 
days : 

You prized my counsel, lived upon my 
lips: 

I led you then to all the Castalies; 

I fed you with the milk of every Muse ; 

I ioved you like this kneeler, and you 
me 

Your second mother : those were gra- 
cious times. 

Then came your new friend: you be- 
gan to change — 

I saw it and grieved — to slacken and 
to cool ; 

Till taken with her seeming openness 

You turned your warmer currents all 
to her. 

To me you froze ; this was mv meed 
for all. , 



148 



THE PRLVCESS. 



Yet I bore up in part from ancient 

love, 
And partly that I hoped to win you 

back, 
And partly conscious of my own de- 
serts, [head, 
And partly that you were my civil 
And chiefly you were born for some- 
thing great, 
In which I might your fellow-worker 

be, 
When time shouM serve ; and thus a 

noble scheme 
Grew up from seed we too long since 

had sown; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah's 

gourd, 
Up in one night and due to sudden 

sun : 
We took this palace; but even from 

the first 
You stood in your own light and dark- 

en'd mine. 
What student came but that you planed 

her path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, 
1 your old friend and tried, she new in 

all? 
But still her lists were swell'd and mine 

were lean; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be 

known ; 
Then came these wolves: they knew 

her ; they endured, 
Long-closeted with her theyester-morn. 
To tell her what they were, and she to 

hear : 
And me none told : not less to an eye 

like mine, 
A lidless watcher of the public weal, 
Last night, their mask was patent, and 

my foot 
Was to vou: but I thought again; I 

fear'd 
To meet a cold ' We thank you, we 

shall hear of it 
From Lady Psyche : ' you had gone to 

her. 
She told, perforce; and winning easy 

grace, 



No doubt, for slight delay, remain'd 

among us 
In our young nursery still unknown, 

the stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my 

honest heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant 

haste 
To push my rival out of place and 

power. 
But public use required she should be 

known ; 
And since my oath was ta'en for pub- 
lic use, 
I broke the letter of it to keep the 

sense. 
I spoke not then at first, but watch'd 

them well. 
Saw that they kept apart, no mischief 

done ;. 
And yet this day (tho' you should hate 

me for it) 
I came to tell you : found that you had 

gone, 
Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise : now, 

I thought, 
That surely she will speak; if not, 

then I : 

Did she ? These monsters blazon'd 

what they were. 
According to the coarseness of their 

kind. 
For thus I hear; and lynown at last 

(my work) 
And full of cowardice and guilty shame, 
I grant in her some sense of shame 

she flies ; 
And I remain on whom to wreak- your 

rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up 

yours, 
I that have wasted here health, wealth, 

and time, 
And talents, I — you know it — I will 

not boast: ^ 

Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan, 
Divorced from mv experience, will be 

chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men will 

say 



THE PRINCESS. 



149 



We did not know the real light; but 

chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot 

can tread." 

She ceased : tlie Princess answer'd 

coldly " Good : 
\o\\x oath is broken : we dismiss you : 

go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the 

child) 
' Uir mind is changed : we take it to 

ourself." 

Thereat the Lady stretch'd a vulture 
throat, 

And shot from crooked lips a haggard 
smile. 

•'The plan was mine. I built the 
nest," she said, 

" To hatch the cuckoo. Rise ! " and 
stoop'd to updrag 

Melissa : she, half on her mother propt, 

Half drooping from her, turn'd her 
face, and cast 

A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 

Which melted Florian's fancy as she 
hung, 

A Niobean daughter, one arm out, 

Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; and 
while 

We gazed upon her came a little stir 

About the doors, and on a sudden 
rush'd 

Among us, out of breath, as one pur- 
sued, 

A w(mian-post in flying raiment. Fear 

Stared in her eyes, and chalk'd her 
face, and wing'd 

Her transit to the throne, whereby she 
fell 

Delivering seal'd despatches which the 
Head 

Took half-amazed, and in her lion's 
mood 

Tore open, silent we with blind sur- 
mise 

Regarding, while she read, till over 
brow 

And cheek and bosom brake the wrath- 
ful bloom I 

As of some fire against a stormv cloud ] 



When the wild peasant rights himself, 

the rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the 

heavens ; 
For anger most it seem'd, while now 

her breast. 
Beaten with some great passion at her 

heart. 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and we 

heard 
In the dead hush the papers that she 

held 
Rustle : at once the lost lamb at her 

feet 
Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; 
The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire ; she 

crush'd 
The scrolls together, made a sudden 

turn 
As if to speak, but, utterance failing 

her. 
She whirl'd them on to me, as who 

should say, 
" Read," and 1 read — two letters — one 

her sire's. 

"Fair daughter, when we sent the 

Prince your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, 

which learnt. 
We, conscious of what temper you are 

built. 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but 

fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this 

night. 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested 

you. 
And here he keeps me hostage for his 

son." 

The second was my father^s, running 

thus : 
" You have our son ; touch not a hair 

of his head : 
Render him up unscathed : give him 

your hand : 
Cleave to your contract: tho' indeed 

we hear 
You hold the woman is the better 

man ; 



I50 



THE PRINCESS. 



A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 

Would make alf women kick against 
their lords 

Thro' all the world, and which might 
well deserve 

'i'hat we this night should pluck your 
palace down ; 

.Vnd we will do it, unless you send us 
back 

Our son, on the instant, whole." 

So far I read ; 

And then stood up and spoke impetu- 
ously. 

" O not to pry and peer on your re- 
serve, 
l')Ut led by golden wishes, and a hope 
I'he child of regal compact, did I 

break 
Your precinct ; not a scorner of your 

sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All thai? it might be: hear me, for I 

bear, 
rho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er your 

wrongs, 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a 

life 
Less mine than yours ; my nurse would 

tell me of you; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the 

moon, 
Vague brightness ; when a boy, you 

stoop'd to me 
P'rom all high places, lived in all fair 

lights, 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost 

south 
-Vnd blown to inmost north; at eve 

and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods; 
The leader wild-swan in among the 

stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of 

glow-worn light 
The mellow breaker murmur'd Ida. 

Now, 
Jkcause I would have reach'd you, had 

you been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the en- 
throned 



Pcresphone in Hades, now at length, 

Those winters of abeyance all worn 
out, 

A man I came to see you : but, in- 
deed, 

Not in this frequence can I lend full 
tongue, 

noble Ida, to those thoughts that 

wait 
On you, their centre : let me say but 

this, 
That many a famous man and woman, 

tov/n 
And landskip, have I lizard of, after 

seen 
The dwarfs of prestage ; tho' when 

known, there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing; but in you 

I found 
My boyish dream involved and dazzled 

down 
And master'd, while that after-beauty 

makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour 

to hour. 
Within me, that except you slay me 

here. 
According to your bitter statute book, 

1 cannot cease to follow you, as they 

say 

The seal does music; who desire you 
more 

Than growing boys their manhood ; 
dying lips. 

With many thousand matters left t« 
do. 

The breath of life ; O more than poor 
men wealth, 

Than sick men health, — yours, yours, 
not mine, — but half 

Without you, \\ith you, whole ; and of 
those halves 

You worthiest; and howe'er you block 
and bar 

Your heart with system out from mine, 
I hold 

That it becomes no man to nurse de- 
spair, 

But in the teeth of clcnch'd antagon- 
isms 



77IE PRINCESS. 



151 



To follow up the worthiest till he die : 
Yet that I came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter." 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, 

and dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet : a tide of fierce 
Invective seem'd to wait behind her 

lips, 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world 

with foam ; 
And so she would have spoken, but 

there rose 

A hubbub in the court of half the 

maids [hall 

Gather'd together : from the illumined 

Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a 

press 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded 

ewes, 
And rainbow robes, and gems and 

gem-like eyes. 
And gold and golden heads; they to 

and fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some 

red, some pale, 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to --the 

light, 
Some crying there was an army in the 

land, 
And some that men were in the very 

walls. 
And some they cared not ; till a clamor 

grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman-built. 
And worse confounded : high above 

them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking 
peace. 

Not peace shelook'd, the Head : but 

rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep 

hair, so 
To the open window moved, remaining 

there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the 

waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling 

eye 



Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the 

light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd 

her arms and call'd 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 

" What fear ye brawlers t am not I 

your Head ? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : 

/ dare 
All these male thunderbolts : v.hat is 

it ye fear t 
Peace ! there are those to avenge us 

and they come : 
If not, — myself were like enough, O 

girls. 
To unfurl the maiden banner- of our 

rights. 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of 

war. 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause, 
Die : yet I blame ye not so much for 

fear; 
Six thousand years of fear have made 

ye that 
From which I would redeem ye : but 

for those 
That stir this hubbub — you and you — 

I know 
Your faces there in the crowd — to mor- 
row morn [they 
\Ve hold a great convention : then shall 
That love their voices more than duty, 

learn 
\Yith whom they deal, dismiss'd in 

shame to live 
No wiser than their mothers, household 

stuff. 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's 

fame. 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the 

clown, 
The drunkard's football, laughing- 
stocks of Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and in 

their heels, 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to 

thrum, 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and 

to scour. 
Forever slaves at home and fools 

abroad." 



^52 



THE PRINCESS, 



She, ending, waved her hands : 

thereat the crowd 
Muttering dissolved : then with a smile, 

that look'd 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff, 
When all the glens are drown'd in 

azure gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us 

and said ; 

" You have done well and like a 

gentleman. 
And like a prince : you have our thanks 

for all : 
And you look well too in your woman's 

dress : 
Well have you done and like a gentle- 
man. 
You saved our life ; we owe you bitter 

thanks : 
Better have died and spilt our bones in 

the flood — 
Then men had said— but now — What 

hinders me 
To take such bloody vengeance on you 

both ?— 
Yet since our father— Wasps in our 

good hive, 
You would be quenchers of the light 

to be, 
Barbarians, grosser than your native 

bears — 

v\'ould I had his sceptre for one hour ! 
You that have dared to break our 

bound, and gull'd 

Our servants, wrong'd and lied and 
thwarted us — 

/ wed with thee ! / bound by precon- 
tract 

Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho' 
all the gold 

That veins the world were pack'd to 
make your crown, 

And every spoken tongue should lord 
you. ' Sir, 

Your falsehood and you'self are hate- 
ful to us : 

1 trample on your offers and on you : 
Begone : we will not look upon you 

more. 
Here, push them out at gates." 



In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of 

the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and 

address'd 
Their motion : twice I sought to plead 

my cause, 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy 

hands, 
The weight of destiny : so from her 

face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and 

thro' the court, 
And with grim laughter thrust us out 

at gates. 

We cross'd the street and gain'd a 

petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights 

and heard 
The voices murmuring. While I 

listen'd, came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the 

doubt : 
I seem'd to move among a world of 

ghosts : 
The Princess with her monstrous 

''woman-guard, 
The jest and earnest working side t>y 

side, 
The cataract and the tumult and the 

kings 
Were shadows; and the long fantastic 

night 
With all its doings had and had not 

been. 
And all things v>ere and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my 

spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy; 
Not long ; I shook it off ; for spite of 

doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadov/ings I was 

one 
To whom the touch of all mischance 

but came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Nor- 
way sun 
Set into sunrise : then we moved away. 



THE PRINCESS. 



53 



Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 

That beat to battle where he stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets tke foe. 

And strikes him dead for thine and 
thee. 



By glimmering lanes the walls of can- 
vas, led 

Threading the soldier-city, till we heard 

The drowsy folds of our great ensign 
shake 

From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial 
tent 

Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sudden light 



So Lilia sang: we thought her half- Dazed me half-blind: I stood and 

possess'd, I seeni'd to hear 

She struck such warbling fury thro' : As in a poplar grove when a light wind 

the words ; j wakes 

And, after feigning pique at what she ' A lisping of the innumerous leaf and 

call'd I dies, 

The raillery, or grotesque, or false sub- ! Each hissing in his neighbor's ear; 

lime — I and then 

Eike one that wishes at a dance to I A strangled titter, out of wliich there 



change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried 

for war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make 

an end : 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half turning to the broken statue said, 
" Sir Ralph has got your colors : if I 

prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, what 

for me .'' " [tomb 

It chanced, her empty glove upon the 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. " Plight," 

she said, 



brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to 

death, 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two 

old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and 

down. 
The fresh young captains flash'd their 

glittering teeth. 
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved 

and blew. 
And slain with laughter roll'd the gilded 

Squire. 
At length my Sire, his rough cheek 

wet with tears, 



"And make us all we would be, great j Panted from weary sides, "King, } 

and good." 
He knightlike in his cap instead of 

casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hall. 
Arranged the favor, and assumed the 

Prince. 



V. 

Now, scarce three paces measured 

from the mound. 
We stumbled on a stationary voice. 
And " Stand, who goes t " " Two from 

the palace," L 
" The second two : they wait," he said, 

"pass on ; 
His Highness wakes " : and one, that 

clash'd in arms. 



are free ! 
We did but keep you surety for our 

son. 
If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, 

thou, 
That tends her bristled grunters in the 

sludge : " 
For I wasdrench'd with ooze, and torn 

with briers. 
More crumpled than a poppy from the 

sheath, 
And all one rag, disprinced from head 

to heel. 
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted 

palm 
A whisper'd jest to some one near him 

" Look, 



J54 



THE PRINCESS. 



He has been among his shadows." 

" Satan take 
The old women and their shadows ! 

(thus the King 
Roar'd) make yourself a man to fight 

with men. 
Go : Cyril told us all." 

At boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespass chiding 

eye, 
Away we stole, and transient in a trice 
From what was left of faded woman- 

slough 
To sheathing splendors and the golden 

scale 
Of harness, issued in the sun, that 

now 
Leapt from the dewv shoulders of the 

Earth, 
And hi"- the northern hills. Here 

Cyril met us, 
A little shy at first, but by and by 
We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd 

and given 
For stroke and song, resolcer'd peace, 

whereon 
Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled 

away 
Thro' the dark land, and later in the 

night 
Flad come on Psyche weeping : " then 

we fell [lies, 

Into your father's hand and there she 
But will not speak, nor stir." 

He bhow'd a tent 
A stone-shot off : we enter'd in, and 

there 
Among piled arms and rough accoutre- 
ments. 
Pitiful sight, wrapt in a soldier's cloak. 
Like some sweet sculpture draped from 

head to foot, 
And push'd by rude hands from its 

pedestal, 
All her fair length upon the ground 

she lay: 
And at her head a follower of the camip, 
A charr'd and wrinkled piece of 

womanhood, 
Sat watching like a watcher by the 

dead. 



Then Florian knelt, and "Come" 

he whisper'd to her, 
"Lift up your head, sweet sister; lie 

not thus 
What have you done but right? you 

could not slay 
Me, nor your prince : look up : be 

comforted ; 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one 

ought. 
When fall'n in darker ways" And 

likewise I : 
" Be comforted : have I not lost her 

too, 
In whose least act abides the nameless 

charm 
That none has else for me ? " She 

hea^d, she moved. 
She moan'd, a folded voice ; and up 

she sat. 
And raised the cloak from brows as 

pale and smooth 
As those that mourn half shrouded over 

death 
In deathless marble. " Her," she 

said, *' my friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause 

and mine — 
Where shall I breathe .'* why kept ye 

not your faith ? 
O base and bad I what comfort .' none 

for me ! " 
To whom remorseful Cyril, " Vet I 

pray 
Take comfort : live, dear ladv, for vour 

child!" 
At which she lifted up her voice and 

cried. 
" Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah 

my child. 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see 

no more ! 
For now wil cruel Ida keep her back; 
And either she will die from want of 

care. 
Or sicken with ill usage, when they say 
The child is hers — for every little fault, 
The child is hers ; and they will beat 

my girl 
Remembering her mother' my 

flower ! 



THE PRINCESS. 



■55 



Or tliey will take her, they will make 

her hard, 
And she will pass me by in after-li*^e 
With some cold reverence v.-orse than 

were she dead. 
Til mother that I was to leave her there, 
To lag behind, scared by the cry they 

made. 
The horror of the shame among them 

all: 
But I Will go and sit beside the doors, 
And make a wild petition night and 

day, 
Until tiity hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing forever, till they open to me, 
And lay my little blossom at my feet, 
My babe, my sweet Agiaia, my one 

child: 
And I will take her up and go my way, 
And satisfy m.y soul with kissing her : 
Ah ! what might that man not deserve 

of me, 
W^ho gave me back my child ? " " Be 

comforted," 
Said Cyril, " you shall have it," but 

again 
She veil'd her brows, and prone she 

sank, and so 
Like tender things that being caught 

feign death, 
Spoke not, nor stirr'd. 

By this a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camp and inward raced 

the scouts 
With rumor of Piince Arac hard at 

hand. 
We left her by tlie woman, and without 
Found the gray kings at parle : and 

" Look you," cried 
My father, " that our compact be ful- 
fil I'd : 
You have spo.lt this child; she laughs 

at you and man : 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, 

and him : 
But red-faced war has rods of steel and 

fire ; 
She yields, or war." 

Then Gama turn'd to me ; 
'' We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy 

time 



With our strange girl : and yet they say 

that still 
Vou love her. Give us, then, your 

mind at large : 
How say you, war or not?" 

" Not war, if possible, 

king," I said, " lest from the abuse 

of war, 
The desecrated shrine, the trampled 

year, 
The smouldering homestead, and the 

household flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the common 

wrong — 
A smoke go up thro' which I loom to 

her 
Three times a monster : now she 

lightens scorn 
At him that mars her plan, but then 

would hate 
(And every voice she talk'd with ratify 

And every face she look'don justify it) 
The general foe. More soluble is this 

knot, 
By gentleness than war I want her 

love. 
W^hat were I nigher this altho' we 

dash'd 
Your cities into shards with catapults, 
She would not love ; — or brought her 

chain'd, a slave, 
The lifting of whose evelash is my 

lord. 
Not ever would she love ; but brood- 
ing turn 
The book of scorn till all my little 

chance 
Were caught within the record of her 

wrongs, 
And crush'd to death : and rather. Sire, 

than this 

1 would the old god of \<zx himself 

were dead, 
Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills. 
Rotting on some wild shore with ribs 

of wreck, 
Or like an o!d-\vorld mammoth bulk'd 

in ice, 
Not to be molten out." 

And rouhgly spake. 



15(3 



THE nUNCESS 



My father, " Tut, you know them not, 

the girls. 
Boy, when I hear you prate I almost 

think 
That idiot legend credible. Look you, 

Sir! 
Man is the hunter ; woman is his 

game : 
The sleek and shining creatures of the 

chase, 
We hunt them for the beauty of their 

skins ; 
They love trs for it, and we ride them 

down. 
Wheedling and siding with them! 

Out I for shame ! 
Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear 

to them 
As he that does the thing they dare not 

do. 
Breathing and sounding beauteous bat- 

tle> comes 
With the air of the trumpet round him, 

and leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by the 

score 
Fatfer'd and fluster'd, wins, though 

dash'd with death 
He reddens what he kisses : thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good 

wife, 
Worth winning ; but this firebrand — 

gentleness 
To such as her ! if Cyril spake her 

true. 
To catch a dragon in a cherry net. 
To trip a tiger with a gossamer, 
Were wisdom to it." 

" Yea, but Sire," I cried, 
" Wild natures need wise curbs. The 

soldier ? No : 
What dares not Ida do that she should 

prize 
The soldier ? I beheld her, when she 

rose 
The yester-night, and storming in 

extremes 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance 

down 
Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd 
the death, 



No, not the soldier's ; yet I hold her, 

king. 
True woman : but you clash them all 

in one. 
That have as many differences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 
As oak from elm; one loves the 

soldier, one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, 

one that. 
And some unworthily; their sinless 

faith, 
A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty, 
Glorifying clown and satyr; whence 

they need 
More breadth of culture : is not Ida 

right ? 
They worth it ? truer to the law within ? 
Severer in the logic of a life .-* 
Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 
Of earth and heaven ? and she of whom 

you speak, 
My mother, looks as whole as some 

serene 
Creation minted in the golden moods 
Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, a 

touch. 
But pure as lines of green that streak 

the white 
Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves ; I 

say. 
Not like the piebald miscellan}^ man, 
Bursts of great heart and slips in sen- 
sual mire, 
But whole and one ; and take them all- 
in-all, [kind. 
Were we ourselves but half as good, as 
As truthful, much that Ida claims as 

right 
Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly 

theirs 
As dues of Nature. To our point; 

not war : 
Lest I lose all." 

" Nay, nav, you spake but sense," 
Said Gam'a. '' We remember love our- 
selves 
In our sweet youth ; we did not rate 

him then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with 

blows. 



THE PRINCESS. 



57 



You talk almost like Ida; j//^ can talk ; 
And there is something in it as you 

say; 
But you talk kindlier ; we esteem you 

for it, — 
He seems a gracious and a gallant 

Prince, 
I would he had our daughter ; for the 



In every hole, a song on every spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, 

and woke 
Desire in me to infuse my tale of love 
In the old king's ears, who promised 

help, and oozed 
All o'er v.'ith honey'd answer as we 

rode ; ' [dews 



rest, j And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy 

Our own detention, why the causes ! Gather'd by night and peace, with 

weigh'd, I each light air 

Fatherly fears — you used us courte- ' On our mail'd heads : but other 



ously 
We would do much to gratify your 

Prince — 
We pardon it; and for your ingress 

here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair 

land, 
You did but come as goblins in the 

night. 
Nor in the furrow broke the plough- 
man's head, 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the 

mil king-maid 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of 

cream: 
But let our Prince (our royal word upon 

it, 
Wt comes back safe) ride with us to 

our lines, 
And speak with Arac; Arac's word is 

thrice 
As ours with Ida; something may be 

done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see 

us friends. will, 

You, likewise, our late guests, if so you 
Follow us : who knows? we four may 

build some plan 
Foursquare to opposition." 

Here he reach'd 
White hands of farewell to my sire, 

who grov>-rd 
An answer which, half-mufifled in his 

beard. 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we with the old king 
across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings 
of Spring 



thoughts than Peace 
Burnt in us, v/hen we saw the embat- 
tled sqares. 
And squadrons of the Prince, tram- 
pling' the flowers 
With clamor : for among them rose a 

cry 
As if to greet the king : they made a 

halt; 
The horses yell'd ; they clash'^J their 

arms ; the drum 
Beat ; merrily-blowing shrill'd the mar. 

tial fife ; 
And in the blast and bray of the long 

horn 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner : anon to meet us lightly 

pranced 
Three captains out ; nor ever had I 

seen 
Such thews of men : the midmost and 

the highest 
Was Arac ; all about his motion clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, 

made them glance 
Like those three stars of the airy 

Giant's zone. 
That glitter burnish'd by the frosty 

dark; 
And as the fiery Sirius alters hue, 
And bickers into red and emerald, 

shone 
Their morions, wash'd with morning, 

as they came. 

And I that prated peace^ w hen first I 
heard 
War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of 
force. 



i58 



THE PRINCESS. 



Whose home is in the sinews of a man, 
Stir in me as to strike ; then took the 

king 
His three broad sons ; with now a 

wandering hand 
And now a pointed hnger, told them 

all : 
A common light of smiles at our dis- 
guise 
Broke from their lips, and, ere the 

windy jest 
Had labor'd down within his ample 

lungs, 
The genial giant, Arac, roll'd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in 

words. 

"Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he 
himself 

Your captive, yet my father wills not 
war ; 

And, 'sdeath ! myself, what care I, war 
of no ? 

But then this question of your troth re- 
mains ; 

And there's a downright honest mean- 
ing in her ; 

She flies too high, she flies too high ! 
and yet 

She ask'd but space and fairplay for 
her scheme . [self, 

She prest and prest it on me — I my- 

W hat know I of these things ? but, life 
and soul ! 

I thought her half-right talking of her 
wrongs : 

I say she fhes too high, 'sdeath ! what 
of that ? 

I take her for the flower of womankind, 

And so I often told her, right or wrong. 

And, Prince, she can be sweet to those 
she loves, 

And, right or wrong, I care not : this 
is all, 

I stand upon her side : she made me 
swear it — 

'Sdeath. — and with solemn rites by can- 
dle-light- 
Swear by St. somethlng—I foi'get her 
name — 

Her that talk'd down the (iftv wisest 
men : 



She was a princess too ; and so I swore. 
Come, this is all; she will not: waive. 

your claim, 
If not, the foughten field, what else, at 

once 
Decides it, 'sdeath ! against my father's 

will." 
I lagg'd in ansNver loath to render 

up 
My precontract, and loath by brainless 

war 
To cleave the rift of difference deeper 

yet; 
Till one of those two brothers, half 

aside 
And fingering at the hair about his 

lip, 
To prick us on to combat " Like to 

like ! 
The woman's garment hid the woman's 

heart." 
A taimt that clench'd his purpose like 

a blow 1 
For fiery-short was Cyril's counter- 
scoff, 
And sharp I answer'd touch'd upon 

the point 
Where idle boys are cowards to their 

shame, 
" Decide it here : why not ? we are 

three to three." 

Then spake the third, " But three to 

three "i no more I 
No more, and in our noble sister's 

cause ? 
More, more, for honor : every captain 

waits 
Hungry for honor, angry for his king. 
More, more, some fifty on a side, that 

each 
May breathe himself, and quick ! by 

overthrow 
Of these or those, the question settled 

die." 

"Yea," answer'd I, "for this wild 

wreath of air. 
This flake of rainbow flying on the 

highest 
Foam of men's deeds—this honor, if ye 

will. 



THE PRI.VCESS. 



159 



If needs must be for honor if at all : 
Since, what decision ? if we fail, we 

fail, 
And if we win, we fail : she would not 

keep 
Her compact.'' '"Sdeath! but we will 

send to her," 
Said Arac, " worthy reasons why she 

should 
Bide by this issue : let our missive 

thro', . 
And you shall have her answer by the 

word." 

" Boys ! " shriek'd the old king, but 

vainlier than a hen 
To her false daughters in the pool ; for 

none 
Regarded ; neither seem'd there more 

to say: 
Back rode we to my father's camp, and 

found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the 

gates, 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our 

claim, 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's life ; three 

times he went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none 

appear'd : 
He batter'd at the doors ; none came : 

the next. 
An awful voice within had warn'd him 

thence : 
The third, and those eight daughters 

of the plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and 

caught his hair, 
And so belabor'd him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild: not less one 

glance he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, 

firm 
Tho' compass' d by two armies and the 

noise 
Of arms ; and standing like a stately 

Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-cragj 
When storm is on the heights* and 

right and left 



Suck'd from the dark heart of the long 

hills roll 
I The torrents, dash'd to the vale : and 

yet her will 
I Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. 

! But when I told the king that I was 
I pledged 

j To fight in tourney for my bride, he 
! clash'd 

His iron palms together with a cry; 
Himself would tilt it out among the 

lads : 
But overborne by all his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and 

state, perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce 

demur : 
And many a bold knight started up in 

heat. 
And sware to combat for my claim till 
death. 

All on this side the palace ran the 

field 
Flat to the garden wall : and likewise 

here, 
Above the garden's glowing blossom- 
belts, 
A column' d entry shone and marble 

stairs. 
And great bronze valves, emboss'd 

with Tomyris 
And what she did to Cyrus after fight, 
But now fast barr'd : so here upon the 

fiat 
All that long morn the lists were ham- 

mer'd up. 
And all that morn the heralds to and 

fro, 
With message and defiance, went and 

came ; 
Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand, 
But shaken here and there, and rolling 

words 
Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read. 

" O brother, you have known the 
pangs we felt, 

What heats of indignation when we 
heard 

Of those that iron-craniD'd their wo- 
men's feet J 



i6o 



THE PRINCESS, 



Of lands in which at the altar the poor 

bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift 

a scourge ; 
Of living hearts that crack within, the 

fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots; 

and of those, — 
Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 
Their pretty maids in the running 

flood, and swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the 

heart 
Made for all noble motion : and I saw 
That equal baseness lived in sleeker 

times 
With smoother men; the old leaven 

leaven'd all : 
Millions of throats would bawl for 

civil rights. 
No woman named : therefore I set my 

face 
Against all men, and lived but for 

mine own. 
Far off from men I built a fold for 

them: 
I stored it full of rich memorial : 
I fenced it round with gallant insti- 
tutes. 
And biting laws to scare the beasts of 

prey, [boys 

And prosper'd ; till a rout of saucy 
Brake on us at our books, and marr'd 

our peace, 
Mask'd like our maids, blustering I 

knew not what 
Of insolence and love, some pretext 

held 
Of baby troth, invalid, since my will 
Seal'd not the bond — the striplings! — 

for their sport ! — 
I tamed my leopards: shall I not tame 

these ? 
Or you ? or I ? for since you think me 

touch'd 
In honor— what, I would not aught of 

false — 
Is not our cause pure ? and whereas I 

know 
Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's 

blood 



You draw from, fight, you failing, I 

abide 
What end soever; fail you will not. 

Still 
Take not his life : he risk'd it for my 

own ; 
His mother lives : yet whatsoe'er you 

do, 
Fight and fight well ; strike and strike 

home. O dear 
Brothers, the woman's Angel guards 

you, you 
The sole men to be mingled with our , 

cause, 
The sole men we shall prize in the 

after-time, 
Your very armor hallow'd, and your 

statues 
Rear'd, sung to, when this gad-fly 

brush'd aside. 
We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to 

move 
With claim on claim from right to 

right, till she 
Whose name is yoked with children's, 

know herself ; 
And knowledge in our own land make 

her free. 
And, ever following those two crown'd 

twins. 
Commerce and conquest, shower the 

fiery grain 
Of freedom broadcast over all that 

orbs 
Between the Northern and the South- 
ern morn." 

Then came a postcript dash'd across 

the rest. 
'* See that there be no traitors in your 

camp : 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to 

trust : 
Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt 

plague of men ! 
Almost our maids were better at their 

homes, 
Than thus man-girdled here : indeed I 

think 
Our chiefest comfort is the little child 



THE PRINCESS. 



i6r 



Of one unworthy mother; which she 

left: 
She shall not have it back : the child 

shall grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her 

mind. 
I took it for an hour in mine own bed 
This morning : there the tender orphan 

hands 
Felt at my heart, and seemed to charm 

from thence 
The wrath I nursed against the world ; 

farewell." 

I ceased: he said: "Stubborn, but 

she may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunder- 
storms, 
And breed up warriors I See now, 

tho' yourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to 

sloughs 
That swallow common sense, the spin- 

d ing king, 
This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, the 

woman takes it up. 
And topples down the scales ; but this 

is ftxt [all ; 

As are the roots of earth and base of 
Man for the field and woman for the 

hearth ; 
Man for the sword and. for the needle 

she : 
Man with the head and woman with 

the heart : 
Man to command arid woman to obey; 
All else confusion. Look you ! the 

gray mare 
Is ill to live v.-ith, when her whinny 

shrills 
From tile to scullery, and her small 

good-man 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires 

of Hell 
Mix with his hearth : but you — she's 

yet a colt — ' 
Take, break her : strongly groom'd 

and straitly curb'd 
She might not rank with those detest- 
able 



That let the bantling scald at home, 

and brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs 

in the street. 
They say she's comely ; there's the 

fairer chance : 
/ like her none the less for rating at 

her! 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we, 
But suffers change of frame. A lusty 

brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. 

The bearing and the training of a 

child 
Is woman's wisdom." 

Thus the hard old king : 
I took my leave, for it was nearly 

noon : 
I pored upon her letter which I held, 
And on the little clause " take not his 

life : " 
I mused on that wild morning in the 

woods, 
And on the " Follow, follow, thou shalt 

win : " 
I thought on all the wrathful king had 

said, 
And how the strange betrothment was 

to end : 
Then I remember'd that burnt sorcer- 
er's curse 
That one should fight with shadows 

and should fall ; 
And like a flash the weird affection 

came : 
King, camp and college turn'd to hol- 
low shows ; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts, 
And doing battle with forgotten ghosts. 
To dream myself the shadow of a 

dream: 
And ere I woke it was the point of 

noon, 
The lists were ready. Empanoplied 

and plumed 
We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet 

blared 
At the barrier like a wild horn in a 

land 



II 



l62 



THE PRINCESS. 



Of echoes, and a moment, and once 

more 
The trumpet, and again : which the 

storm 
Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of 

spears 
And riders front to front, until they 

closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivering 

points, 
And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream ; 

I dream'd 
Of fighting. On his haunches rose the 

steed, 
And into fiery splinters leapt the lance. 
And out of stricken helmets sprang the 

fire. 
A noble dream ! what was it else I 

saw .'' 
Part sat like rocks ; part reel'd but 

kept their seats ; 
Part roll'd on the earth and rose again 

and drew : 
Part stumbled mixt with floundering 

horses. Down 
From those two bulks at Arac's side, 

and down [flail. 

From Arac's arm, as from a giant's 



The larg-e blows 



'd, as here and 



everywhere 

He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing 
lists, 

And all the plain — brand, mace, and 
shaft, and shield — 

Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil 
bang'd 

With hammers ; till I thought, can 
this be he 

From Gama's dwarfish loins ? if this 
be so. 

The mother makes us most — and in 
my dream 

I glanced aside, and saw the palace- 
front 

Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' 
eyes. 

And highest, among the statues, statue- 
like, 

Between a cymbal 'd Miriam and a Jael, 

With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching 
us. 



A single band of gold about her hair, 
Like a Saint's glory up in heaven : but 

she 
No saint — inexorable — no tenderness— 
Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me 

fight. 
Yea, let her see me fall ! with that I 

drave 
Among the thickest and bore down x 

Prince, 
And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make my 

dream 
All that I would. But that large- 
moulded man. 
His visage all agrin as at a wake, 
Made at me thro' the press, and, stag- 
gering back, 
With stroke on stroke the horse and 

horseman came 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud. 
Flaying the roofs and sucking up the 

drains. 
And shadowing down the champaign 

till it strikes 
On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and 

cracks, and splits. 
And twists the grain with such a roar 

that Earth 
Reels, and the herdsmen cry; for ev- 
erything [he 
Gave way before him : only Florian, 
That loved me closer than his own 

right eye, 
Thrust in between ; but Arac rode him 

down : 
And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the 

Prince, 
With Psyche's color round his helmet, 

tough, 
Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at 

arms ; 
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that 

smote 
And threw him : last I spurr'd ; I felt 

my veins 
Stretch with fierce heat ; a moment 

hand to hand, ' 

And sword to sword, and horse to 

horse we hung, 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the 

blade glanced ; 



THE PRINCESS. 



■ 63 



I did but shear a feather, and dream 

and truth 
Flovv'd from me ; darkness closed me ; 

and I fell. 



Home they brought her warrior dead 
She nor svvoon'd, nor utter'd cry : 

All her maidens, watching, said, 
*' She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved. 

Truest friend and nol)lest foe ; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stept. 

Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears — 
"Sweet my child, I live for thee." 



VI. 

My dream- had never died or lived 

again. 
As in some mystic middle state I lay; 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard ; 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 

• For so it seem'd, or so they said to 

me. 
That all things grew more tragic and 

more strange ; 
That when our side was vanquish'd 

and my cause 
Forever lost, there went up a great cry, 
The Prince is slain. My father heard 

and ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my 

casque 
And grovell'd on my body, and after 

him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglaia. 



But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm ; there on 

the roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she 

sang. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have 

fall'n : the seed 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the 

dark, 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown 

a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every 

side 
A thousand arms and rushes to the 

Sun. 

"Our enemies have fall'n, have 
fall'n: they came : 

The leaves were wet with women's 
tears : they heard 

A noise of songs they would not un- 
derstand : 

Thev mark'd it with the red cross to 
'the fall. 

And would have strown it, and are 
fall'n themselves. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have 

fall'n : they came, 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the 

tree! 
But we will make it fagots for the 

hearth. 
And shape it plank and beam for roof 

and floor. 
And boats and bridges for the use of 

men. 

"Our enemies have fall'n, have 
fall'n ; they struck; 

With their own blows they hurt them- 
selves, nor knew 

There dwelt an iron nature in the 
grain ; 

The glittering axe was broken in their 
arms, 

Their arms were shatter'd to the 
shoulder blade. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, but this 
shall grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a 
breadth 



164 



THE PRINCESS. 



Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power ; 

and roll'd 
With music in the growing Ineeze or 

Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, 

tlie fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the 

world. 

"And now, O maids, behold our 

sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken; fear v/e 

not 
To break them more in their behoof, 

whose arm& 
Cbampion'd our cause and won it with 

a day 
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual 

feast, 
When dames and heroines of the gold- 
en year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of 

Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three : 

but come, 
^\''e will be liberal, since our rights are 

won. 
Let them not lie in th^ tents with 

coarse mankind, 
111 nurses ; but descend, and proffer 

these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, 

that there 
Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender 

ministries 
Of female hands and hospitalit)--." 

She spoke, and with the babe yet in 

her arms. 
Descending, burst the great bronze 

valves, and led 
A hundred maids in train across the 

Park. 
Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, 

on they came, 
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest : by 

them u^ent 
The enamor'd air sighing, and on their 

curls 
From the high tree the blossom waver- 
ing fell. 



And over them the tremulous isles of 

light, 
Slided, the moving under shade : but 

Blanche 
At distance follow'd : so they came : 

anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they 

wound 
Timorously ; and as the leader of the 

herd 
That holds a stately fretwork to the 

Sun, 
And follow'd up by a hundred airy 

does. 
Steps with a tender foot, light as on 
air, 
j The lovely, lordly creature floated on 
To where her wounded brethren lay ; 

there stay'd ; 
Knelt on one knee, — the child on 
! one, — and prest 

j Their hands, and call'd them dear do 
I liverers, 

i And happy warriors and immortal 
j names, 

I And said, "You shall not lie in the 
tents but here, 
And nursed by those for whom you 

fought, and served 
With female hands and hospitality." 

Then, whether moved by this, or 

was it chance, 
She past my way. Up started from 

my side 
The old lion, glaring with his whelp- 
less eye. 
Silent ; but when she saw me lying 

stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly 

pale, 
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd ; and when 

she saw 
The haggard father's face and reverend 

beard 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the 

blood 
Of his own son, shudder'd a twitch of 

pain, 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her forC' 

head past 



THE PRINCESS. 



i6S 



she said : 
" He saved my life : my brother slew 

him for it." 
No more : at which the king in bitter 

scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and 

the iress, 
And held them up : she saw them, and 

a day 
Rose frcmi the distance on her memory, 
When the good Queen, her mother, 

shore the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady 

Blanche : 
And then once more she look'd at my 

pale face : 
Till understanding all the foolish work 
Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all, 
Her iron will was broken in her mind; 
Her noble heart was molten in her 

breast ; 
She bow'd, she set the child on the 

earth ; she laid 
A feeling finger on my brows, and 

presently 
" O Sire," she said, " he lives : he is 

not dead : 
O let me have him with my brethren 

here [him 

In our own palace : we will tend on 
-Like one of these ; if so, by any means, 
To lighten this great clog of thanks, 

that m.ake 
Our progress falter to the woman's 

goal." 

She said : but at the happy word 

" he lives," 
]\Iy father stoop'd, re-father'd o'er my 

wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen life, 
With brow to brow like night and 

evening mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche 

ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden 

brede.. 
Lay like a new fall'n meteor on the 

grass, 



Uncared for, spied its mother and 

began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to 

dance 
Its body, and reach its falling innocent 

arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the 

appeal 
Broolv'd not, but clamoring out "Mine 

— mine — not yours, 
It is not yours, but mine : give me the 

child," 
Ceased all on tremble : piteous was the 

cry : 
So stood the unhappy mother open- 

mouth'd, 
And turn'd her face each way : wan 

was her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming 

mantle torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her 

eye, 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, 

and half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting 

burst 
The laces toward her babe; but she 

nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida 

heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, 

stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her 

glance 
The mother, m.e, the child ; but he that 

lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
Trail'd himself up on one knee : then 

he drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, ar.d down 

she look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying, as 

it seem'd. 
Or self-involved ; but when she learnt 

his face. 
Remembering his ill-omen'd song, arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and o'er 

him grew 
Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand 
V/hen the tide ebbs in feunshine, and 

he said ; 



66 



THE PRINCESS. 



" O fair and strong and terrible ! 

Lioness 
That with your long locks play the 

Lion's mane ! 
But Love and Nature, these are two 

more terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on our 

necks, 
We vanquish'd, vou the victor of vour 

will. 
What would you more ? give her the 

child ! remain 
Orb'd in your isolation : he is dead. 
Or all as dead: henceforth we let you 

be: 
Win you the hearts of women ; and 

beware 
Lest, where you seek the common love 

of these. 
The common hate with the revolving 

wheel 
Should drag you down, and some great 

Nemesis 
Break from a darken'd future, crown'd 

with fire 
And tread you out forever : but how- 

soe'fer 
Fix'd in yourself, never in your own 

arms ' 
To hold your own, deny not hers to 

her, 
Give her the child ! O if, I say, you 

keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if 

you loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dandled 

you. 
Or own one part of sense not flint to 

prayer, 
Give her the child ! or if you scorn to 

lay it. 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt with 

yours. 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one 

fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could 

not kill, 
Give me it; /will give it her." 

He said : 
At first her eye with slow dilation 

roll'd 



Dry flame, she listening; after sank 

and sank 
And, into mournful twilight mellowing, 

dwelt 
Full on the child ; she took it : " Pretty 

bud! 
Lily of the vale ! half open'd bell of 

the woods ! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a 

world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system 

made 
No purple in the distance, mystery, 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, fare- 
well; 
These men are hard upon us as of old, 
We too must part : and yet how fain 

was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, 

to think [felt 

I might be something to thee, when 1 
Thy helpless warmth about my barrer 

breast 
i \\\ the dead prime : butm.ay thy mothei 

prove [me \ 

As true to thee as false, false, false to 
And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, 

I wish it 
Gentle as freedom" — here she kissed 

it : then — 

" All good go with thee ! take it. Sir," 

and so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed 

hands, 
Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as 

she sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swum in 

thanks : 
Then felt it sound and whole from 

head to foot, 
And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close 

enough. 
And in her hunger mouth'd and mum- 
bled it, 
And hid her bosom with it ; after that 
Put on more calm and added suppli- 

antly : 

" We two were friends : I go to mine 
own land 
Forever : find some other : as for me 



THE PRINCESS. 



167 



I scarce am fit for your great plans : 
yet speak to me, 

Say one soft word and let me part for- 
given." 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon tlie 

child. 
Then Arac. " Ida — 'sdeath ! you blame 

the man ; 
V'ou wrong yourselves — the woman is 

so hard 
iTpon the woman. Come, a grace to 

me ! 
\ am your warrior ; I and mine have 

fought 
Vour battle: kiss her; take her hand, 

she weeps : 
'Sdeath ! I would sooner fight thrice 

o'er than see it." 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the 

ground, 
And reddening in the furrows of his 

chin, 
And moved beyond his custom, Gama 

said : 

"I've heard that there is iron in the 

blood, 
And I believe it. Not one word ? not 

one ? 
Whence drew you this steel temper ? 

not from me, 
Not from your mother now a saint 

with saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard her 

say it — 

* Our Ida has a heart ' — just ere she 

died — 

* But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still,' and I — I sought for 

one — 
All people said she had authority — 
The Lady Blanche : much profit ! Not 

one word ; 
No ! tho' your father sues : see how 

you stand 
Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good 

knights maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to 

death, 



For your wild whim : andvvas it then 

for this. 
Was it for this we gave our palace up, 
Where we withdrew from summer 

heats and state. 
And had our wine and chess beneath 

the planes. 
And many a pleasant hour with her 

that's gone. 
Ere you were born to vex us ? Is it 

kind > 
Speak to her I say : is this the son of 

whom. 
When first she came, all flush'd you 

said to me 
Now had you got a friend of your own 

age, 
Now could you share your thought ; 

now should men see 
Two women faster welded in one lOve 
Than pairs of wedlock ; she you walk'd 

with, she 
You talk'd with, whole nights long, up 

in the tower, 
Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth, 
And right ascension, Heaven knows 

v\'hat ; and now 
A word, but one, one little kindly 

word, 
Not one to spare her : out upon you, 

flint ! 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any ; 

nay, 
You shame your mother's judgment 

too. Not one t 
You will not ? well — no heart have you, 

or such 
As fancies like the vermin in a nut 
Have fretted all to dust and bitter- 
ness." 
So said the small king moved beyond 

his wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of 
her force 

By many a varying influence and so 
long. 

Down thro' her limbs a drooping lan- 
guor wept : 

Her head a little bent; and on hej 
mouth 



1 68 



THE PRINCESS. 



A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded 

moon 
In a still water : then brake out my sire 
Lifting his grim head from my M'ounds. 

*' O you, 
Woman, whom we thought woman 

even now. 
And were half fool'd to let you tend our 

son, 
Because he might have wish'd it — but 

we see 
The accomplice of your madness un- 

forgiven, 
And think that you might mix his 

draught with death, 
When your skies change again : the 

rougher hand 
Is safer : on to the tents : take up the 

Prince." 

He rose, and while each ear was 
prick'd to attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimm'd 

her broke 
A genial warmth and light once more, 

and shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad 
friend. 

" Come hither, 

Psyche," she cried out, " embrace 

mc, come, 

Quick while I melt; make reconcile- 
ment sure 

With one that cannot keep her mind 
an hour : 

Come to the hollow heart they slander 
so ! 

Kiss and be friends, like children being 
chid ! 

/seem no more: / want forgiveness 
too : 

1 should have had to do with none but 

maids, 
That have no links with men. Ah 

false but dear, 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why ? — 

why ? Yet see, 
Before these kings we embrace you yet 

once more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust, not love, vou less. 



And now, O Sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait 

upon him. 
Like mine own brother. For my debt 

to him, 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I 

know it ; 
Taunt me no more : yourself and yours 

shall have 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our maids 
Till happier times each to her proper 

hearth : 
What use to keep them here now ? 

grant my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help ; speak to 

the king : 
Thaw this male nature to some touch 

of that 
Which kills me with myself, and drags 

me down 
From my fixt height to mob me up 

with all 
The soft and milky rabble of woman- 
kind, 
Poor weakling ev'n as they are." 

Passionate tears 
Follow'd the king replied not : Cyril 

said : 
" Your brother, Lady, — Florian, — ask 

for him [too — 

Of your great head — for he is wounded 
That you may tend upon him with the 

Prince." 
" Ay so," said Ida with a bitter smile, 
" Our laws are broken : let him enter 

too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mourn- 
ful song. 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. " Ay so," she 

said, 
" I stagger in the stream : I cannot 

keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling 

hour : 
We break our laws with ease, but let 

it be." 
"■ Ay so .•* " said Blanche : " Amazed 

am I to hear 
Your Highness : but your Highness 

breaks with ease 



THE PRINCESS. 



169 



The law your Highness did not make : 
'twas I. 

I had been wedded wife, I knew man- 
kind, 

\nd block'd them out ; but these men 
came to woo 

Vour Highness — verily I think to win." 
So she, and turn'd askance a wintry 
eye : 

But Ida with a voice, that like a bell 

Toll'd by an earthquake in a trembling 
tower, 

Rang ruin, answer'd full of grief and 
scorn. 

"Fling our doors wide I all, all, not 

one, but all. 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul, 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or 

foe, [flit, 

Shall enter, if he vv'ill. Let our girls 
Till the storm die ! but had you stood 

by us. 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from 

his base 
Had left us rock. She fain would 

sting us too. 
But shall not. Pass, and mingle with 

your l.kes. 
We brook no further insult but are 

gone."' 

She turn'd the very nape of her 

white neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but the 

Prince 
Her brother came ; the king her father 

charm'd 
Her wounded soul with w'ords; nor 

did mine own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his 

hand. 



Rested: but great the crush was, and 

each base. 
To left and right, of those tall columns 

drown'd 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers: at the further 

end 
Was Ida by the throne, the two great 

cats 
Close by her, like supporters on a 

shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear: but in the 

centre stood 
The common men with rolling eyes; 

amazed 
They glared upon the women, and 

aghast [save. 

The women stared at these, all silent, 
When armor clash'd or jingled, while 

the day, 
Descending, struck athwart the hall 

and shot 
A flying splendor out of brass and 

steel. 
That o'.er the statues leapt from head 

to head. 
Now fired an angry Pallas on the 

helm. 
Now set a wrathful Dlan's moon on 

flame, 
And now and then an echo smarted up. 
And shuddering fled from room to 
j room, and died 

I Of fright m far apartments. 

Then the voice 
I Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 

And me they bore up the broad stairs, 
I and thro' 

j The long-laid galleries past a hundred 

doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, 

and due 
To languid limbs and sickness ; left me 

in it; 
I And others otherwhere they laid ; and 

all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing 

home 



Then us they lifted up, dead weights, 

and bare 
Straight to the doors: to them the 

doors gave way 
Groaning, and in the Vestal entry 

shriek'd 
The virgin marble under iron heels: 
And on they moved and gain'd the j Till happier times ; but some were left 

hall, and there I of those 



THE FK INC ESS. 



Held sagest, and the great lords out 

and in, 
From those two hosts that lay beside 

the walls, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything 

chanced. 



Ask me no more : the moon may draw 
the sea; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven 

and take the shape. 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of 
cape ; 
Put O too fond, when have I an- 
swer'd thee ? 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should 
I give .'' 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eve : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have 
thee die ! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee 
live; 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine 
are seal'd : 
I strove against the stream and all 

in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the 
main : 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I 
yield ; 

Ask me no more. 

VII. 

So was their sanctuary violated, 
So their fair college turn'd to hospital ; 
At first with all confusion : by and by 
Sweet order lived again with other 

laws : 
A kindlier influence reign'd ; and every- 
where 
Low voices with the ministering hand 
Hung round the sick: the maidens 

came, they talk'd. 
They sang, they read : till she not fair, 

began 
To gather light, and she that was, 
became 



Her former beauty treble ; and to and 

fro 
With books, with flowers, with Angel 

offices, 
Like creatures native unto gracious 

act, 
And in Iheir own clear element, they 

moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell. 
And hatred of her weakness, blent 

with shame. 
OM studies fail'd ; seldom she spoke ; 

but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone 

for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of 

men 
Darkening her female field : void was 

her use ; 
And she as one that climbs a peak to 

gaze 
O'er land and main, and sees a great 

black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of 

night, « 

Blot out the slope of sea from verge to 

shore, 
And suck the blinding splendor from 

the sand, 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn by 

tarn 
Expunge the world : so fared she gaz- 
ing there ; 
So blacken'd all her world in secret, 

blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain ; till 

down she came, 
And found fair peace once more among 

the sick. 
And twilight dawn'd; and morn by 

morn the lark 
Shot up and shrili'd in flickering gyres, 

but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life : 
And twilight gloom'd ; and broader- 
grown the bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, 

and Heaven, 
Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could 

reach me, lay 



THE PRINCESS. 



171 



Quite sunder'd from the moving Uni- 
verse, 

Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the 
hand 

That nursed me, more than infants in 
their sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian : with 

her oft 
Melissa came ; for Blanche had gone, 

but left 
Her child among us, willing she should 

keep 
Court-favor: here and there the small 

bright head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the 

couch. 
Or thro' the parted silks the tender 

face [man 

Peep'd, shining in upon the wounded 
With blush and smile, a medicine in 

themselves 
To wile the length from languorous 

hours and draw 
The sting from pain ; nor seem'd it 

strange that soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair 

charities 
Join'd at her side ; nor stranger seem'd 

that hearts 
So gentle, so employ'd, should close in 

love, 
Than when two dew drops on the petal 

shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble 

deeper down, 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit 

obtain'd 
At first with Psyche. Not though 

Blanche had sworn 
That after that dark night among the 

fields, 
She needs must wed him for her own 

good name ; 
Not tho' he built upon the babe re- 
stored ; 
Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, but 

fear'd 
To incense the Head once more ; till 

on a day 



When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she 

hung 
A moment,and she heard, at which her 

face 
A little flush'd, and she past on : but 

each 
Assumed from thence a half-consent 

involved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were at 

peace. 

Nor only these : Love in the sacred 

halls 
Held carnival at will, and flying struck 
W' ith showers of random sweet on maid 

and man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my 

claim. 
Nor did mine own now reconciled ; nor 

yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again 

and whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate wiih hs victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she 

sat : 
Then came a change ; for sometimes I 

would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it 

hard, 
And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 
" You are not Ida " ; clasp it once 

again, 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not, 
And call her sweet, as if in irony, 
And call her hard and cold which 

seem'd a truth : 
And still she fear'd that I should lose 

my mind. 
And often she believed that I should 

die : 
Till out of long frustration of her care, 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary 

noons. 
And watches in the dead, the dark, 

when clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thro' the palace 

floors, or call'd 
On flying Time from all their silver 

tongues — 



172 



THE PRINCESS. 



A.nd out of memories of her kindlier 

days, 
And sidelong glances at my father's 

grief, 
And at the happy lovers heart in 

heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken 

love, 
And lonely listenings to my muttcr'd 

dream, 
And often feeling of the helpless hands, 
And wordless broodings on the wasted 

cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourish'd up, 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, 

to these. 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung 

with tears 
By some cold morning glacier ; frail at 

first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself. 
But such as gather'd color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but wellnigh close 

to death 
For weakness : it was evening : silent 

light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein 

were wrought 
Two grand designs : for on one side 

arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and 

storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, 

they cramm'd 
The forum, and half-crush'd among the 

rest 
A dwarflike Cato cower'd. On the 

other side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax ; 

behind, 
A train of dames: by axe and eagle 

sat, 
With all their foreheads drawn in 

Roman scowls, 
And half the wolf's-milk curdled in 

their veins. 
The fierce triumvirs : and before them 

paused 
Hortensia, pleading : angry was her 

face. 



I saw the forms : I knew not where 

I was: 
They did but seem as hollow shows ; 

nor more 
Sweet Ida : palm t-o palm she sat ; 

the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her 

shape 
And rounder show'd : I moved : I 

sigh'd • a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon 

my hand : 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what life 

I had, 
And like a flower that cannot all un- 
fold. 
So drcnch'd it is with tempest, to the 

sun, 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on 

her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whisper- 

ingly : 

" If you be, what I think you, some 

sweet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself : 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing : only, if a dream, 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die 

tonight. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I 

die." 

I could no more, but lay like one in 

trance, 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his 

friends. 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor 

make one sign, 
But lies and dreads his doom. She 

turn'd ; she paused ; 
She stoop'd ; and out of languor leapt 

a cry ; 
Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of 

death; 
And I believed that in the living world 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips ; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms 

she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame; and all 



THE PRINCESS. 



173 



Her falser self slipt from her like a 

robe, 
And left her woman, lovelier in her 

mood 
Than in her mould that other, when 

she came 
From barren deeps to conquer all with 

love ; 
And down the streaming crystal dropt ; 

and she 
Far-fleeted by the purple island sides. 
Naked, a double light in air and wave, 
To meet her Graces, where they deck'd 

her out 
For worship without end ; nor end of 

mine, 
Stateliest, for thee ! but mute she 

glided forth, 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank 

and slept, 
Fiird thro' and thro' with Love, a 

happy sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke : she, near 

me, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she 

read. 

*' Now sleeps the crimson petal, now 

the white; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace 

walk ; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the prophyry 

font : 
The firefly wakens : waken thou v/ith 

me. 

" Now droops the milkwhite peacock 
like a ghost, 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to 
me. 

Xow lies the Earth all Danae to 
the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

"Now slides the silent meteor on, 
and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in 
me. 



" Now folds the lily all her sweet- 
ness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake : 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and 

slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me." 

I heard her turn the page; she 
found a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she 
read : 

'" Come down, O maid, from yonder 

mountain height : 
What pleasure lives in height (the 

shepherd sang) 
In height and cold, the splendor of the 

hills ? 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, 

and cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted 

Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, 

come. 
For Love is of the valley, come thou 

down 
And find him ; by the happy thresh- 
old, he, 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the 

maize. 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats, 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to 

walk 
With Death and Morning on the Silver 

Horns, 
Nor Avilt thou snare him in the white 

ravine, 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of 

ice. 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven 

falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
But follow ; let the current dance thee 

down 
To find him in the valley ; let the wild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and 

leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, 

and spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling 

water-smoke, 



174 



THE PRINCESS. 



That like a broken purpose waste in 

air: 
So waste not thou ; but come ; for all 

the vales 
Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every 

sound, 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is 

sweet ; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the 

lawn. 
The moan of doves in immemorial elms. 
And murmuring of innumerable bees," 
So she low-toned ; while with shut 

eyes I lay 
Listening ; then look'd. Pale was the 

perfect face ; 
The bosom with long sighs labor'd; 

and meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the 

luminous eyes, 
And the voice trembled and the hand. 

She said 
r.rokenlv, that she knew it, she had 

fail'd 
In sweet humility ; had fail'd in all ; 
That all her labor was but as a block 
Left in the quarry ; but she still were 

loath, 
She still were loath to yield herself to 

one. 
That wholly scorn'd to help their equal 

rights 
Against the sons of men, and barbarous 

laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their cause 

from her 
That wrong'd it, sought far less for 

truLh than power 
In knowledge : something wild within 

her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her 

down. 
And she had nursed me there from 

week to week : 
Much had she learnt in little time. In 

part 
It was ill-counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts : yet was she but a 

girl— 



"Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of 

farce ! 
When comes another such ! never, I 

think 
Till the Sun drop dead from the signs." 
Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon 

her hands, 
And her great heart through all the 

faultful Past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not 

break ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark 

world 
Was lisp'd about the acacias, and a 

bird, 
That early woke to feed her little 

ones. 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for 

light : [fell. 

She moved, and at her feet the volume 

"Blame not thyself too much," I 

said, " nor blame 
Too much the sons of men and barbar- 
ous laws ; 
These were the rough ways of the 

world till now. 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me> 

that know 
The woman's cause is man's : they rise 

or sink 
Together, dwarf'd or godlike, bond or 

free : 
For she that out of Lethe scales with 

man 
The shining steps of Nature, shares 

with man 
His nights, his days, moves with him 

to one goal. 
Stays all the fair young planet in her 

hands — 
It she be small, slight-natured, misera- 
ble, 
How shall men grow "i but work no 

more alone ! 
Our place is much : as far as in us lies 
We two will serve them both in aiding 

her — 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag he?f 

down — 



THE PRINCESS. 



175 



Will leave her space to burgeon out of 

all 
Within her — let her make herself her 

own 
To give or keep, to live and learn and 

be 
All that not h^rms distinctive woman- 
hood. 
For woman is not undevelopt man, 
But diverse : could we make her as the 

man, 
Sweet love were slain : his dearest 

bond is this. 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years liker must they 

grow ; 
The man be more of woman, she of 

man ; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral 

height, 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that 

throw the world ; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in child- 
ward care, 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger 

mind ; 
Till at the last she set herself to man, 
Like perfect music unto noble words ; 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of 

Time, 
Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their 

powers. 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Self-reverent each and reverencing 

each, 
Distinct in individualities, 
But like each other ev'n as those who 

love. 
Then comes the statelier Eden back to 

men : 
Then reign the world's great bridals, 

chaste and calm : 
Then springs tlie crowning race of 

humankind, 
May these things be ! " 

Sighing she spoke, " I fear 
They will not." 

"Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud watcli- 

word rest 
Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 



Is half itself, and in true marriage Hes 
Nor equal, nor unequal ; each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in 

thought. 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they 

grow. 
The single pure and perfect animal, 
The two-cell'd heart beating, with one 

full stroke. 
Life." 
■ And again sighing she spoke : " A 

dream 
That once was mine ! what woman 

taught you this ? " 

'•'Alone," I said, "from earlier than 

I know, 
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of 

the world, 
I loved the woman : he, that doth not, 

lives 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, 
Or pines in sad experience worse than 

death. 
Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt 

with crime : 
Yet was there one thro' whom I loved 

her, one 
Not learned, save in gracious house- 
hold ways. 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender 

wants. 
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the Gods and men, 
Who look'd all native to her place, and 

yet 
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a 

sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds 

perforce 
Sv.^ay'd to her from their orbits as they 

moved, 
And girdled her with music. Happy 

he 
With such a mother ! faith in woman- 
kind 
Beats with his blood, and trust in all 

things high 
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip 

and fall 



176 



THE PRINCESS. 



He shall not blind his soul witii clay." 
"Butl," 

Said Ida, tremulously, "so all unlike — 

It seems you love to cheat yourself 
with words : 

This mother is your model. I have 
heard 

Ot your strange doubts: they well 
migntbe: i seem 

A mockery to my own self. Never, 
Prince ; 

You cannot love me." 

" Nay but thee," I said 

'From yearlong poring on thy pic- 
tured eyes, 

Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, 
and saw 

Thee wom.an thro' the crust of iron 
moods 

That mask'd thee from men's rever- 
ence up, and forced 

Sweet love on pranks of saucy boy- 
hood: now, 

Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' 
thee, [light 

Indeed I love : the new day comes, the 

Dearer for night, as dearer thou for 
faults 

Lived over : lift thineoeyes ; my doubts 
are dead, 

My haunting sense of hollow shows : 
the change. 

This truthful change in thee has kill'd 
it. Dear, 

Look up, and let thy nature strike on 
mine, 

Like yonder morning on the blind half- 
world ; 

Approach and fear not ; breathe upon 
my brows ; 

In that fine air I tremble, all the past 

Melts mist-like into this bright hour, 
and this 

Is morn to more, and all the rich to- 
come 

Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland 
reels 

Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. 
Forgive me, 

I waste my heart in signs : let be. My 
bride. 



My wife, my life. O we will walk this 

world, 
Yoked in all exercise of noble ciid. 
And so thro' those dark gates across 

the wild 
That no man knows. Indeed I love 

thee : come. 
Yield thyself up : my hopes -and thine 

are one : 
Accomplish thou my manhood and 

thyself ; 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust 

to me." 



CONCLUSION. 

So closed our tale, of which I give you 

all 
The random scheme as wildly as it 

rose : 
The words are mostly mine ; for when 

we ceased 
There came a minute's pause, and 

Walter said, 
** I wish she had not yielded ! " then to 

me, 
" What, if you drest it up poetically ! " 
So pray'd the men, the women : I gave 

assent : 
Yet hov/ to bind the scatter'd scheme 

of seven 
Together in one sheaf ? What style 

could suit } 
The men required that I should give 

throughout 
The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, 
With which we banter'd little Lilia 

first: 
The women — and perhaps they felt 

their power, 
For something in the ballads which 

they sang, 
Or in their silent influence as they sat, 
Had ever seem'd to wrestle with bur- 
lesque, 
And drove us, last, to quite a solemn 

close — 
They hated banter, wish'd for some- 
thing real, 
A gallant fight, a noble princess— why 



THE PRINCESS. 



m 



Not make her true -heroic — true-sub- 
lime ? 
Or all, they said, as earnest as the 

close ? 
Which yet with such a framework 

scarce could be. 
Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, 
Betwixt the mockers and the realists ; 
And I, betwixt them both, to please 

them both, 
And yet to give the story as it rose, 
I moved as in a strange diagonal, 
And maybe neither pleased myself nor 
them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took 

no part 
In our dispute : the sequel of the tale 
Had touch'd her; and she sat, she 

pluck'd the grass, 
She flung it from her, thinking ; last, 

she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and 

said, 
" You — tell us what we are " who might 

have told, 
For she was cramm'd with theories 

out of books, 
But that there rose a shout ; the gates 

were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarm- 
ing now. 
To take their leave, about the garden 

rails. 

So I and some went out to these : 

we climb'd 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning 

saw 
The happy vallevs, half in light, and 

half 
Far-shadowing from the west, a land of 

peace ; 
Gray halls alone among the massive 

groves ; 
Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic 

tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths 

of wheat ; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; 

the seas ; 



A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond, 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts of 
France. 

"Look there, a garden!" said my 

college friend. 
The Tory member's elder son, " and 

there ! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps 

her off. 
And keeps our Britain, whole within 

herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled — 

e sei 

faith, 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves 

have made, 
Some patient force to change them 

when we will, 
Some civic manhood firm against the 

crowd — 
But yonder, whiff ! there comes a sud- 
den heat, 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his 

head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will not 

fight, 
The little boy begins to shoot and 

stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the 

world 
In mock heroics stranger than our 

own ; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a school-boys' barring 

out; 
Too comic for the solemn things they 

are, 
Too solemn for the comic touches in 

them. 
Like our wild Princess with as wise a 

dream 
As some of theirs— God bless the nar- 
row seas I 
I wish they were a v.-hole Atlantic 

broad." 

" Have patience," I replied, " our- 
selves are full 
Of social wrong ; and maybe wildest 
dreams 



12 



i7« 



THE PRINCESS. 



Are but the needful preludes of the 

truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy 

crowd, 
The sport half-science, fill me with a 

faith. 
This fine old world of ours is but a 

child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give it 

time 
To learn its limbs : there is a hand that 

guides." 

In such discourse we gain'd the gar- 
den rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he 

stood, 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks. 
Among six boys, head under head, and 

look'd 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder'd genial Eng- 
lishman, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler 

none ; 
Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy 

morn ; 
Now shaking hands with him, now 

him, of those 
That stood the nearest — now address'd 

to speech — 
Who spcJte few words and pithy, such 

as closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for 

the year 
To follow : a shout rose again, and 
made 



The long line of the approaching 

rookery swerve 
From the elms, and shook the branches 

of the deer 
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, 

and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset ; O, a 

shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that 

hails 
Premier or king ! Why should not 

these great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times 

a year 
To let the people breathe ? So thrice 

they cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they stream'd 

away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and 

sat on. 
So much the gathering darkness 

charm'd : we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie, 
Perchance upon the future man: the 

walls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and 

owls whoop'd, 
And gradually the powers of t^" night, 
That range above the regit- of the 

wind. 
Deepening the courts of twilight broke 

them up 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds, 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of 

Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir 

Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well- 
pleased we went. 



IN MEMO RI AM. 



179 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen thy 

face. 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest life in man and brute ; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 
Thou madest man, he knows not why; 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine, 
The highest, holiest manhood, thou: 
Our wills are ours, we know not how ; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day ; 
They have their day and cease to be : 
They are but broken lights of thee, 

And thou, O Lord, art m^ore than they. 

We have but faith: we cannot know; 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comies from thee, 
A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grov/ from more to 
more. 
But more of reverence in us dwell : 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
We mock thee when we do not fear : 
But help thy foolish ones to bear; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in nie ; 

What seem'd my worth since I 
began ; 

For merit lives from man to man. 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 



Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering 
cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in 
truth. 
And in thy wisdom make me wise. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

A. H. H. 

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII. 

I. 

I HELD it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 
That men may rise on stepping- 
stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years. 
And find in loss a gain to match ? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest or tears ? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be 

drown 'd 

Let darkness keep her raven gloss : 

Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss. 

To dance with death, to beat the 

ground. 

Than that the victor Hours should 
scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
" Behold the man that loved and lost 

But all he was is overworn." 



i8o 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the underlying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head, 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again, 
And bring the firstling to the flock; 
And in the dusk of thee, the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

O not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not in any gale, 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom : 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree. 
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 

■^* III. 

O SORROW, cruel fellowship, 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 
O sweet and bitter in a breath, 

What whispers from thy lying lip ? 

" The stars," she whispers, " blindly 
run ; 
A web is wov'n across the sky : 
From out waste places comes a cry, 

And murmurs from the dying sun : 

" And all the phantom, Nature, stands, 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind. 
Embrace her as my natural good ; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood, 

Upon the threshold of the mind ? 



To Sleep I give my powers away ; 
My will is bondsman to the dark 
I sit within a helmless bark. 

And with my heart I muse and say 



O heart, how fares it with thee now, 
That thou shouldst fail from thy 

desire, 
Who scarcely darest to inquire 

*' What is it makes me beat so low ? " 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 
Some pleasure from thine early 

years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling 
tears. 
That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken' d eyes ; 
With morning wakes the' will, and 
cries, 

" Thou shalt not be the fool of loss." 



V. 



I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin 
To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies; 
The sad mechanic exercise, 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, 
Like coarsest clothes against the 

cold ; 
But that large grief which these en- 
fold 
Is given in outline and no move. 



VI. 



One writes, that " Other friends re- 
main," 
That " Loss is common to tlie 

race," — 
And common is the commonplace. 
And vacant chatY well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more : 
Too common 1 Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



O father, wheresoe'er thou be, 

Who plcdgest now thy gallant son ; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 

() mother, praying God will save 
Thy sailor,— while thy head is bow'd. 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

\'e know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him well ; 
Who mused on all I had to tell. 

And something written, something 
thought. 

Expecting still his advent home : 
A.nd ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, here to-day, 

Or here to-morrow will he come. 

O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, 
That sittest ranging golden hair ; 
And glad to find thyself so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest 

And thinking "This will please him 
best,'' 
She takes a ribbon or a rose ; 

For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color 
burns ; 

And, having left the glass, she turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right ; 

And, even when she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future lord 
Was drown'd in passing thro' the 
ford, 

Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

O what to her shall be the end ? 
And what to me remains of good .'' 
To her, perpetual maidenhood, 

And unto me no second friend. ' 



Dark house, by which once more I 
stand 
Here in the long unlovely street, 



Doors, where my heart was used to 
beat 
So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasp'd no more, — 
Behold me, for I caimot sleep, 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away 
The noise of life begins again. 
And ghastly thro' the drizzhng rain 
I On the bald street breaks the blank 

i day. 

VIII. 

A HAPPY lover who has come 

To look on her that loves hirr. well, 
Who 'lights and rings the gateway 
bell, 
And learns her gone and far from 
home; 

He saddens, all the ma^k: light 

Dies off at once from*»^ver and hall, 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of delight ; 



So find I every pleasant spot 
j In which we two were wont to meet, 
} The field, the chamber, and the 
street. 

For all is dark where thou art not. 

i Yet as that other, wandering there 
i In those deserted walks, may ^.\\C\ 
I A flower beat with rain and wind, 
I Which once she foster'd up with care ; 



So seems it in my deep regret, 

my forsaken heart, with thee 
And this poor flower of poesy 

Which little cared for fades not yet. 

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb. 
That if it can it there may bloom, 

Or dying, there at least may die. 

IX. 

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
With my lost Arthur's loved re- 
mains. 

Spread thy full wings, and waft him 



l82 



IN MEMORIAM. 



So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain ; a favorable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, any urn. 

Thro' prosperous floods his hold lead 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, 

bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

vSphere all your lights around, above ; 
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the 

prow ; 
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps 
now, 
]\Iy friend, the brother of my love ; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
Till all my widow'd race be run; 
Dear as the mother to the son, 

More than my brothers are to me. 



I HEAR the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night; 

I see the cabin-window bright; 
I see the sailor at the v/heel. 

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife, 
And travell'd men from foreign 

lands ; 
And letters unto trembling hands ; 

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. 

So bring him : we have idle dreams : 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies : O to us. 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod. 

That takes the sunshine and the 

rains. 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God ; 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 
Should gulf him fathom deep in 

brine; 
And hands so often clasp'd in mine 

Should toss with tangle and with shells. 



Calm is the morn without a sound, 
^alm as to suit a calmer grief. 



And only thro' the faded leaf 
The chestnut pattering to the ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high 
wold 
And on these dews that drench the 

furze, 
And ail the silvery gossamers 
That twinkle into green and gold : 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn 

bowers, 
And crowded farms and lessening 
towers, 
To mingle with the bounding main ; 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 
These leaves that redden to the fall ; 
And in my heart, if calm at all. 

If any calm, a calm despair : 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 
And waves that sway themselves in 

rest, 
And dead calm in that noble breast 
Which heaves but with the heaving 
deep. 

XII. 

Lo, as a dove when up she springs 
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe, 
Som.e dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings; 

Like her I go; I cannot stay; 
I leave this mortal ark behind, 
A weight of nerves without a mind, 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large, 
And reach the glow of southern 

skies. 
And see the sails at a distance rise, 

And linger v.-eeping on the marge, 

And saying, "Comes he thus, my 
friend ? 
Is this the end of all my care ? " 
And circle moaning in the air: 

" Is this the end "i Is this the end 1 " 



IN MEMORIAM. 



■83 



And forward dart again, and play 
About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn, 

That I have been an hour away. 

XIII. 

Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals, 
And moves his doubtful arms, and 
feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these ; 

Which weep a loss forever new, 

A void v»'here heart on heart re- 
posed ; 
And, where warm hands have prest 
and clos'd. 
Silence, till I be silent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my choice 
An awful thought, a life removed, 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many 
years, 
I do not suffer in a dream ; 
For now so strange do these things 
seem 
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears ; 

My fancies time to rise on wing. 

And glance about the approaching 

sails, 
As tho' they brought but merchants' 
bales, 
And not the burthen that they bring. 

XIV. 

If one should bring me this report. 
That thou hadst touch'd the land to- 
day, 
And I went down unto the quay, 

And found thee lying in the port ; 

And standing, muffled round with woe. 
Should see thv passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down the 
plank, 

And beckoning unto those they know ; 

And if along with these should come 
The man I held as half divine ; 



Should strike a sudden hand in 
mine, 
And ask a thousand things of home ; 

And I should tell him all my pain, 
And how my life had droop'd of 

late. 
And he should sorrow o'er my state 

And marvel what possessed my brain ; 

And I perceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame, 
But found him all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. ^ 

XV. 

To-night the winds begin to rise 
And roar from yonder dropping day ; 
The last red leaf is whirl'd away, 

The rooks are blown about the skies ; 

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, 
The cattle huddled on the lea; 
And wildly dash'd on tower and tree 

The sunbeam strikes along the world : 

And but for fancies, which aver 
That all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could brook the strain and 
stir 

That makes the barren branches loud ; 
And but for fear it is not so, 
The wild unrest that lives in woe 

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always higher, • 
And onward drags a laboring breast, 
And topples round the dreary west, 

A loom.ing bastion fringed with fire. 

XVI. 

What words are these have fall'n 
from me .? 
Can calm despair and wild unrest 
Be tenants of a single breast. 

Or sorrow such a changeling be ? 

Or doth she only seem to take 

The touch of change in calm or 

storm ; 
But knows no more of transient 
form 
In her deeo self, than some dead lake 



i54 



IN MEMORIAM, 



That holds the shadow of a lark 
Hung in the shadow of a heaven? 
Or has the shock, so harshly given, 

Confused me like the unhappy bark 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf. 
And staggers blindly ere she sink? 
And stunn'd me from my power to 
think 

And all my knowledge of myself; 

And made me that delirious man 
Whose fancy fuses old and new, 
An^ flashes into false and true, 

And mingles all without a plan ? 

XVII. 

Thou comest, much wept for : such a 
breeze 
Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 

Thro' circles of the bounding sky. 
Week after week : the days go by : 

Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou may'st 
roam, 
My blessing, like a line of light, 
Is on the waters day and night, 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 
Mid-ocean spare thee, sacred bark ; 
And balmy drops in summer dark 

Slide from the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done, 
Such precious relics brought by thee ; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run. 

XVIII. 

'Tis well; 'tis something; we may 
stand 
Where he in English earth is laid. 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'Tis little; but it looks in truth 
As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 



Come then, pure hands, and bear the 
head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of 

sleep. 
And come, whatever loves to weep, 
And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart. 
Would breathing through his lips 
impart 

The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain. 
And slov.ly forms the firmer mind, 
Treasuring the look it cannot find. 

The words that are not heard again. 



The Danube to the Severn gave 
The darken'd heart that beat no 

more; 
They laid him by the pleasant shore, 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along, 
And hush'd by deepest grief of all, 
Vv^hen fill'd with tears that cannot 
fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, th wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 
My deeper anguish also falls 

And I can speak a little then. 



The lesser giiefs that may be said, 
That breathe a thousand tender vows, 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead ; 

Who speak their feeling as it is, 
And weep the fulness from the 

mind : 
" It will be hard,' ' they say, " to find 

Another service such as this." 



IN MEMORIAL. 



iSS 



My lighter moods are like to these, 
That out of words a comfort win ; 
But there are other griefs within, 

And tears that at their fountain freeze : 

p-or by the hearth the children sit 
Cold in that atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the 
breath, 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit : 

But open converse is there none, 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

'* How good ! how kind ! and he is 
gone." 

XXI. 

I SING to him that rests below, 
And, since the grasses round me 

wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave. 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then. 
And sometimes harshly will he 

speak : 
" This fellow would make weakness 
weak. 
And melt the waxen hearts of men." 

Another answers, " Let him be, 
He loves to make parade of pain, 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy." 

A third i? v.-roth, Is this an hour 
For private sorrow's barren song, 
When more and more the people 
throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil power .'' 

" A,time to sicken and to swoon, 
When Science reaches forth her 

arms 
To feel from world to world, and 
charms 
Her secret from the latest moon ? " 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing: 
Ye never knew the sacred dust ; 
I do but sing because I must. 

And pipe but as the linnets sing : 



And one is glad ; her note is gay, 
For now her little ones have ranged ; 
And one is sad ; her note is changed, 

Because her brood is stol'n away. 

XXII. 

The path by which we twain did go, 
Which led by tracts that pleased us 

well. 
Thro' four sweet years arose and fell, 
P'rom flower to flower, from snow to 
snow : 

And we with singing cheer'd the way, 
And crown'd with all the season lent, 
From April on to Apiil went. 

And glad at heart from May to Mjiy : 

But where the path we walk'd began 
To slant the fifth autumnal slope. 
As we descended, following Hope, 

There gst the Shadow fear'd of man ; 

Who broke our fair companionship. 
And spread his mantle dark and cold, 
And wrapt thee formless in the fold. 

And dull'd the murmur on thy lip, 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste. 
And think that somewhere in the 
waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 

XXIII. 

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 
Or breaking into song by fits, 
Alone, alone, to where he sits, 

The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot. 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame, 
And looking back to whence I came, 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying, " How changed from 
where it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was 

dumb ; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 
The murmur of a happy Pan : 

" When each by turns was guide to 

each. 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught, 



i86 



IN ME MORI AM. 



And Thought leapt out to wed with 
Thought 
Ere Thought could wed itself with 
Speech ; 

" And all we met was fair and good, 
And all was good that Time could 

bring, 
And ail the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood; 

" And many an old philosophy 
On Argive heights divinely sang, 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady." 

XXIV. 
And was the day ot my delight 
As sure and perfect as I say ? 
The very source and fount of Day 
Is dash'd with wandering isles of 
night. 

If all was good and fair we met. 
This earth had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since Adam left his garden yet. 

And is it that the haze of grief 

Makes former gladness loom so 

great ? 
The lowness of the present state, 

That sets the past in this relief ? 

Or that the past will always win 
A glory from its being far : 
And orb into the perfect star 

We saw not, when we moved therein ? 



I KNOW that this was Life, — the track 
Whereon with equal feet we fared; 
And then, as now, the day prepared 

The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 
As light as carrier-birds in air ; 
I loved the weight I had to bear, 

Because I needed help of love ; 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb, 
When mighty Love would cleave in 

twain 
The lading of a single pain. 

And part it, giving half to him. 



XXVI. 

Still onward winds the weary way; 
I with it ; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 
And goodness, and hath power to see 
Within the green the moulder'd tree, 

And tovv'ers fall'n as soon as built, — 

O, if indeed that eye foresee 
Or see (in Him is no before) 
In more of life true life no more 

And Love the indifference to be, 

Then might I find, ere yet the morn 
Breaks hither over Indian seas. 
That shadow waiting with the keys, 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 

XXVII, 

I ENVY not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet born within the cage. 

That never knew the summer woods ; 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes : 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart tnat never plighted troth, 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII. 

The time draws near the birth of 
Christ ; 

The moon is hid ; the night is still ; 

The Christmas bells fron hill to hill 
Answer each other in the mist. 
Four voices of four hamlets round. 

From far and near, on mead and 
moor, 

Swell out and fail, as if a door 
Were shut between me and the sound : 



IN MBUORJAM. 



187 



Each voice four changes on the ,wind, 
That now dilate, and now decrease, 
Peace and good-will, good-will and 
peace. 

Peace and good-will, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke wdth pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake. 
And that my hold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again : 

But they my troubled spirit rule, 
For they controll'd me when a boy ; 
They bring m'e sorrow touch'd with 
joy, 

The merry, merry bells of Yule. 

XXIX. 

With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
And chains regret to his decease, 

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve 

Which brings no more a welcome guest 
To enrich the threshold of the night 
With shower'd largess of delight, 

In dance and song and game and jest. 

Yet go, and while the holly-boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font, 
Make one wreath more for Use and 
Wont 

That guard the portals of the house ; 

Old sister of a day gone by, 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new; 
Why should they miss their yearly 
due 

Before their time .'* They too will die. 



With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, 

And sadly fell on Christmas-eve. 

At our old pastimes in he hall 

We gamboll'd, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 



We paused : the winds were in the 
beech ; 
We heard them sweep the winter 

land; 
And in a circle hand-in-hand 
Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang; 
We sung tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year, impetuously we sang : 

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept 
Upon us : surely rest is meet : 
"They rest," we said, "their sleep 
is sweet," 

And silence follow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 
Once more we sang : " They do not 

die 
Nor lose their mortal sympathy. 
Nor change to us, although they 
change ; 

" Rapt from the fickle and the frail 
With gather'd power, yet the same. 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil." 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, 
Draw forth the cheerful day from 

night : 
O father, touch the east, and light 
The light that shone when Hope was 
born. 

XXXI. 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, 
And home to Mary's house return'd, 
Was this demanded, — if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 

" Where wert thou, brother, those four 
days ? " 
There lives no record of reply. 
Which telling what it is to die 

Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met, 
The streets were fill'd with joyful 

sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 



IN MEMORIAM, 



Behold a man raised up ]^y Christ 1 
The rest remaineth unreveal'd; 
He told it not ; or something seal'd 

The lips of that Evangelist. 

xxxir. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he Avas dead, and there he sits. 

And he that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears. 
Borne down by gladness so complete. 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's 
feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful 
prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
What souls possess themselves so 
pure, 
Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 



O THOU that after toil and storm 
Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer 

air. 
Whose faith has centre everywhere. 

Nor cares to fix itself to form. 

Leave thou thy sister, when she prays» 
Her early Heaven, her happy views > 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint con- 
fuse 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine. 
Her hands are quicker unto good : 
O, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 

See thou, that contest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within, 
Thou fail not in a world of sin, 

And ev'n for want of such \ type. 

XXXIV. 

My own dim life should teach me this* 
That life shall live forevermore» 



Else earth is darkness at the core, 
And dust and ashes all that is : 

This round of green, this orb of flame. 
Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I ? 

'Twere hardly worth my while to 
choose 

Of things all mortal, or to use 
A little patience ere I die ; 

'Twere best at once to sink to peace. 
Like birds the charming serpent 

draws, 
To drop head foremost in the jaws 

Of vacant darkness, and to cease. 

XXXV. 

Yet if some voice that man could trust 
Should murmur from the narrow 

house, 
" The cheeks drop in ; the body 
bows ; 
Man dies : nor is there hope in dust : " 

Might I not say, " Yet even here. 
But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive .'' " 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The meanings of the homeless sea, 
The sound of streams that swift or 

slow 
Draw down ^^onian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be ; 

And Love would answer with a sigh, 
" The sound of that forgetful shore 
Will change my sweetness more and 
m.ore. 

Half-dead to know that I shall die." 

O me ! what profits it to put 

An idle case } If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not been, 

Or been in narrowest working shut, 

Mei-e fellowship of sluggish nioods. 
Or in his coarsest Saiyr-shape 
Had bruised the herb and crush'd 
the grape. 

And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



189 



XXXVI. 

Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame, 
AVe yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 
Where truth in closest words shall 

fail, 
When truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and 
wrought 
With human hands the creed of 

creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds, 
More strong than all poetic thought ; 

Which he may read that binds the 
sheaf, 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave. 
And those wild eyes that watch the 
wave 
in roarings round the coral reef. 

XXXVII. 

Urania speaks with darken'd brow ; 

" Thou pratest here where thou art 
least ; 

This faith has many a purer priest, 
And many an abler voice than thou. 

•' Go down beside thy native rill, 
On thy Parnassus set thy feet, 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill." * 

And my Melpomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek : 
" I am not worthy ev'n to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries ; 

" For I am but an earth Muslye, 
And owning but a ittle art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

And render human love his dues ; 

" But brooding on the dear one dead, 
And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying lips is ail he said,) 

•' I murmur'd, as I came along. 
Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'dj 



And loiter'd :n the Master's field, 
And darken'd sanctities with song.'' 

XXXVIII. 

Vv'iTH weary steps I loiter on, 
Tho' always under alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies, 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives, 
The herald melodies of spring, 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 
Survive in spirits render'd free, 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 

XXXIX. 

Could we forget the widow'd hour. 
And look on Spirits breathed away, 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange- 
flower ! 

When crown'd with blessing she doth 
rise 
To take her latest leave of home, 
And hopes and light regrets that 
come 
Make April of her tender eyes ; 

And doubtful joys the father move, 
And tears are on the mother's face, 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love : 

Her office there to rear, to teach, 
Becoming, as is meet and fit, 
A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In such great offices as suit 

The full-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern ! 
How often shall her old fireside 
Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride, 

How often she herself r»turn, 



IQO 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And tell them all they would have 
told, 
And bring her babe, and make her 

boast 
Till even those that miss'd her most 
Shall count new things as dear as old : 

But thou and I have shaken hands, 
Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know. 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 

Did ever rise from high to higher : 
As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, 

As flics the lighter thro' the gross. 

But thou art turn'd to something 
strange. 
And I have lost the links that bound 
Thy changes ; here upon the ground, 

No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly! yet that this could be, — 
That I could wing my will with 

might 
To leap the grades of life and light, 

And flash at once, my friend, to thee ; 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 

To that vague fear implied in death ; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, 

The bowlings from forgotton fields : 

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor' 

An inner trouble I behold, 

A spectral doubt which makes me 
cold, 
That I shall be thy mate no more, 

Tho' following with an upward mind 
The wonders that have come to thee, 
Thro' all the secular to-be, 

But evermore a life behind. 

XLI. 

I VEX my heart with fancies dim : 
He still outstript me in the race ; 
It was but unity of place 

That made me dream I rank'd with 
him. 



And so may Place retain us still. 
And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will : 

And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 
When one that loves, but knows not, 
reaps 
A truth from one that loves and 
knows .'' 



If Sleep and Death be truly one. 
And every spirit's folded' bloom 
Thro' all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber 
on; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour, 
Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower : 

So then were nothing lost to man ; 
So that still garden of the souls 
In many a figured leaf enrolls 

The total world since life began ; 

And love will last as pure and whole 
As when he loved me here in Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with the dawning soul. 



How fares it with the happy dead ? 
For here the man is more and more 5 
But he forgets the days before 

God shut the doorways of his head. 

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Gives out at times (he knows not 
whence) 

A little flash, a mystic hint ; 

And in the long harmonious years 
(If Death so taste Lethean springs) 
May some dim touch of earthly things 

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



19 



If such a dreamy touch should fall, 
O turn thee round, resolve the 

doubt ; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 

XLIV. 

The baby new to earth and sky, 

What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of the breast, 

Has never thought that " this is I : " 

But as he grows he gathers much, 
And learns the us of " I," and 

" me," 
And finds " I am not what I see, 

And other than the things I touch." 

So rounds he to a separate mind 
From whence clear memory may 

begin. 
As thro' the frame that binds him in 

His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath, 
"Which else were fruitless of their 

due, 
liad man to learn himself anew, 

Beyond the second birth of Death. 

XLV. 

We ranging down the lower track, 
The path we came by, thorn and 

flower. 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour, 

Lest life should fail in looking back. 

So be it: there no shade can last 
In that deep dawn behind the tomb, 
But clear from marge to marge shall 
bloom 

The eternal landscape of the past : 

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd ; 

The fruitful hours of still increase ; 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace, 
And those five 3^ears its richest field. 

Oh Love, thy province were not large, 
A bounded field, nor stretching far; 
Look also, Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 



That each, who seems a separate 
whole. 
Should move his rounds, and fusing 

all 
The skirts of self again, should fall 
Remerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsweet : 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside ; 

And I shall know him when we meet : 

And we shall sit at endless feast, 
Enjoying each the other's good: 
What vaster dream can hit the mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away. 
Some landing-place, to clasp and 
say, 
" Farewell ! We lose ourselves in 
light." 



If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here pro- 
posed, 
Then these were such as men might 
scorn : 

Her care is not to part and prove ; 
She takes, when harsher mood* 

remit. 
What slender shade of doubt may 
flit, 
And makes it vassal unto love : 

And hence, indeed, she sports with 
words, 
But better serves a wholesome lav/. 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords: 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay. 
But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that 
dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 



192 



IN MEMORIAM. 



XLVIII. 

From art, from nature, from the 
schools, 
Let random influences glance, 
Like light in many a shiver'd lance 

That breaks about the dappled pools : 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, 
The fancy's tenderest ecldy wreathe, 
The slightest air of song shall 
breathe 

To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way. 
But blame not thou the winds that 

make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break, 

The tender-pencil'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears, 
Ay me ! the sorrow deepens down. 
Whose muftied motions blindly 
drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 

XLIX. 

Be near me when my light is low, 
When the blood creeps, and the 

nerves prick 
And tingle ; and the heart is sick, 

And all the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer 

trust : 
And Time, a maniac scattering dust, 

And Life, a F;iry slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dry, 
And men the flies of latter spring, 
That lay their eggs, and sting and 
sing. 

And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away. 
To point the term of human strife, 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 



Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our iiide ? 



Is there no baseness we would hide ? 
No inner vilcness that we dread ? 

Should he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame, 
See with clear eye some hidden 
shame. 

And I be lessened in his love ? 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue : 

Shall love be blamed for want of 

faith .? [Death 

There must be wisdom with great 

The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when we climb or fall : 
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
With larger other eyes than ours, 

To make allowance for us all. 

II. 

I CANNOT love thee as I ought. 

For love reflects the thing beloved ; 
My words are only words, and 
moved 

Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

" Yet blame not thou thy plaintive 
song," 
The Spirit of true love replied ; 
'' Thou canst not move me from thy 
side. 
Nor human frailty do me wrong. 

" What keeps a spirit wholly true 
To that ideal which he bears .? 
What record .'' not the sinless years 

That breathed beneath the Syrian 
blue : 

" So fret not,. like an idle girl. 

That life is dash'd with flecks of sin, 
Abide : thy wreath is gather'd in, 
When Time hath sunder 'd shell from 
pearl." 

LII. 
How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man among his boj's. 
Whose youth was full of foolish 
noise, 
Who wears his manhood hale and 
urean : 



IN ME MORI AM. 



293 



And dare we to this fancy give, 

That had the wild-oat not been 

sown, 
The soil, left barren, scarce had 
grown 
The grain by which a man may live ? 

O, if we held the doctrine sound 
For life outliving heats of youth, 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round ? 

Hold thou the good: define it well ; 
For fear divine Philosophy 
Should push beyond her mark, and 
be 

procuress to the Lords of Hell. 

LIII. 

O YET we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroy'd, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void. 

When God hath made the pile com- 
plete; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold we know not anything; 
1 can but trust that good shall fall 
At last— far off— at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night : 
An infant crying for the light; 

And with no language but a crv. 



The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave, 
^ Derives it not from what vve have 
The likest God within the soul .? 

Are God and Nature then at strife. 
That Nature lends such evil dreams 



So careful of the type she seems, 
So careless of the single life; 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and 
grope. 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



" So careful of the type .? " but no. 
From scarped cliff and quarried 

stone 
She cries, "A thousand types are 
gone ; 
I care for nothing, all shall go. 

" Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, I bring to death : 
The spirit does but mean the breath : 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so 
fair. 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed. 
And love Creation's final law, — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

\Vith ravin, shriek'd against his 
creed, — 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust, 

Or seal'd within the iron hills .'' 



No 



A monster then, a dream. 



A discord. Dragons of the prime, 

That tear each other in their slime. 

Were mellow music match'd with him. 



15 



194 



IN ME MORI AM. 



life as futile, then, as frail ! 

O for thy voice to sooth and bless ! 
What hope of answer, or redress ? 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 

LVI. 

Peace ; come away : the song of woe 
Is after all an earthly song : 
Peace ; come away : we do him 
•> wrong 

To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come; let us go: your cheeks are 
pale ; 
But half my life I leave behind : 
Methinks my friend is richly shrined 

But I shall pass ; my work will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies. 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 

1 hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 

Eternal greetings to the dead ; 
And " Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 
** Adieu, adieu," forevermore. 



In those sad words I took farewell ; 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls, 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 
Of hearts that beat from day to da}', 
Half conscious of their dying clay, 

And those cold crypts where they shall 
cease. 

The high Muse answer'd : " Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy brethren with a fruitless tear? 

Abide a little longer here, 
And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 

LVIII. 

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me, 
No casual mistress, but a wife. 
My bosom-friend and half of life, 

As I confess it needs must be: 



O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride, 
And put thy harsher moods aside, 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. 

My centred passion cannot move, 
Nor will it lessen from to-day; 
But I'll have leave at times to play 

As with the creature of my love; 

And set thee forth, for thou art mine, 
With so much hope for years to 

come. 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 
Could hardly tell what name were 
thine. 

LIX. 

He past: a soul of nobler tone : 
My spirit loved and loves him yet, 
Like some poor girl whose heart is 
set 

On one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere. 
She finds the baseness of her lot, 
Half jealous of she knows not what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn; 
She sighs amid her narrow daysj 
Moving about the household ways. 

In that dark house where she was born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go. 
And tease her till the day draws by: 
At night she weeps, " How vain am 
I! 

How should he love a thing so low ?" 

LX, 

If, in thy second state sublime, 

Thy ransoni'd reason change replies 
With all the circle of the wise, 

The perfect flower of human time : 

And if thou cast thine eyes below. 
How dimly character'd and slight, 
How dwarf'd a growth of cold and 
night. 
How b.anch'd with darkness must I 
grow ! 



IN MEMORIAM. 



195 



Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, 
Where thy first form was made a 

man ; - 
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can 
The soul of Shakespeare love thee 
more. 

LXI. 

Tho' if ah eye that's downward cast 
Could make thee somewhat blench 

or fail, 
Then be my love an idle tale. 

And fading legend of the past; 

And thou as one that once declined 
When he was little more than boy, 
On some unworthy heart with joy. 

But lives to wed an equal miind ; 

And breathes a novel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies, 
Or in the light of deeper eyes 

Is matter for a flying smile. 



Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven, 

And love in which my hound has 

part, 
Can hang no weight upon my heart 

In its assumptions up to heaven ; 

And I am so niuch more than these, 
As thou, perchance, art more than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy, 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So ma5-st thou watch me where I weep 
As unto vaster motions bound, 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 

LXiir. 

Dost thou look back on what hath 
been. 
As some divinely gifted man. 
Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar. 
And grasps the skirts of happy 
chance, 



And breasts tne blows of circum- 
stance, 
And grapples witn his evn star, 

Who makes by force his merit known, 
And lives to clutch the golden keys 
To mould a mighty state's decrees. 

And shape the" whisper of the throne; 

And moving up from high to higher, 
Becomes on Fortune's crowning 

slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The centre of a world's desire ; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, 

When all his active powers are still, 
I A distant dearness in the hill, 
j A secret sweetness in the stream, 

I The limit of his narrower fate, 
1 While yet beside its vocal springs 
j He play'd at counsellors and kings, 
With one that was his earliest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands : 

" Does my old friend remember me ? " 



Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt ; 

I lull a fancy troiible-tost 

With " Love's too precious to be 
lost, 
A little grain shall not be spilt." 

And in that solace can I sing, 

Till out of painful phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought. 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing : 

Since we deserved the name of friends, 
And thine effect so lives in me, 
A part of mine may live in thee. 

And move thee on to noble ends. 

LXV. 

You thought my heart too far diseased; 
You wonder when my fancies play 
To find me gay among the gay, 
. Like one with any trifle pleased. 



196 



IN MEMORIAM. 



The shade by which my life was crost, 
Which makes a desert in the mind, 
Has made me kindly with my kind, 

And like to him whose sight is lost ; 

Whose feet are guided thro' the land, 
Whose jest among his friends is free, 
Who takes the children on his knee, 

And winds their curls about his hand: 

He plays with threads, he beats his 
chair 

For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; 

His inner day can never die, 
His night of loss is always there. 



WhExN on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest, 
By that broad water of the west, 

There comes a glory on the walls: 

Thy marble bright in dark appears, 
As slowly steals a silver flame 
Along the letters of thy name. 

And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away: 

From off my bed the moonlight dies; 
And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, 

I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray: 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast, 
And in the dark church, like a ghost, 

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 



When in the down I sink my head. 
Sleep, Death's tv/in-brother, times 

my breath ; 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knovv's 
not Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead; 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn, 

When all our path was fresh with 

dew, 
And all the bugle breezes blew 

Reveillee to the breaking morn. 



' But what is this } I turn about, 

i I find a trouble in thine eye, 

j Which makes me sad, I know not 

I why, 

j Nor can my dream resolve the doubt ; 

\ But ere the lark hath left the lea 
I wake, and I discern the truth ; 
It is the trouble of my youth 
That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 

Lxvrii. 
I dream'd there would be Spring no 
more. 
That Nature's -ancient power was 

lost : 
The streets were black with smoke 
and frost. 
They chatter'd trifles at the door : 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny boughs: 
I took the thorns to bind my brows, 

I wore them like a civic crown: 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 
From youth and babe and hoary 

hairs : 
They call'd me in the public squares 

The fool that wears a crown*of thorns : 

They call'd me fool, they call'd me 
child: 
I found an angel of the night; 
The voice was low, the look was 
bright; 
He look'd upon my crown and smiled : 

He reach'd the glory of a hand, 
That seem'd to touch it into leaf : 
The voice was not the voice of grief ; 

The words were hard to understand. 

LXIX. 

I CANiiOT see the features right, 

When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know ; the hues are faint 

And mix with hollow masks of night; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons 
wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points and palled shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought; 



IN MEMORJAM. 



197 



And crowds that stream from yawning 
doers, 

And shoais of pucker'd faces drive ; 

Dark bulks that tumble half alive, 
And lazy lengths on boundless shores : 

Till all at once beyond the will 
I hear a wizard music roll, 
x\nd thro' a lattice on the soul 

I ooks thv fair face and makes it still. 



Sleep, kinsman thou to death and 
trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at 

last 
A night-long Present of the Past 
In which we went thro' summer France. 

Hadst thou such credit with the soul ? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong, 
Drug down the blindfold sense of 
wrong 

That so my pleasure may be whole ; 

While now we talk as once we talk'd 
Of men and minds, the dust of 

change. 
The days that grow to something 
strange, 
In walking as of old we walk'd 

Beside the river's wooded reach, 

The fortress, and the mountain ridge, 
The cataract flasliing from the bridge, 

The breaker breaking; on the beach. 



RiSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again. 
And howlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar 
white, 
And lash with storm the streaming 
pane .■' 

Day, when my crown'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom. 
Which sicken'd every living bloom, 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 
With thy quick tears that make the 
rose 



Pull sideway?, and the daisy clos3 
Her crimson fringes to the shower; 

Who might'st have heav'ed a windlass 
flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, 

play'd 
A chequer-work of beam and shade 
Along the hills, yet looked the same, 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now; 
Day, mark'd as with some hideous 

crime 
When the dark hand struck down 
thro' time. 
And cancell'd nature's best : but thoii, 

Lift as thou mayst thy burthen'd brows 
Thro' clouds that drench the morn- 
ing star. 
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar, 

And sow the sky with flying boughs. 

And up thy vault with roaring sound 
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous 

day; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, 
And hide thy shame beneath the 
ground. 

LXXII. 

So many worlds, so much to do, 
So little done, such things to be, 
How know I what had need of thee. 

For thou wert strong as thou wert 
true .'' 

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw, 
The head hath miss'd an earthly 

wreath : 
I curse not nature, no, nor death ; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: 
W^hat fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age.'' It rests with God. 

O hollow wraith of dying fame, 
Fade wholly, while the soul exults, 
And self-infolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a 
name. 



198 



IN MEMORIAM. 



LXXIII. 

As sometimes in a dead man's face, 
To those that watch it more and 

more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before. 

Comes out — to some one of his race : 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I see thee what thou art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below, 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

I"ut there is more than I can see. 
And what I see I leave unsaid, 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has 
made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 



I LEAVE thy praises unexpress'd 
In verse that brings myself relief, 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guess'd ; 

What practice howso'er expert 
In fitting aptest words to things. 
Or voice the richest-toned that sings, 

Hath power to give thee as thou vv'ert ? 

I care not in these fading days 
To raise a cry that lasts not long. 
And round thee with the breeze of 
song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green, 
And, while we breathe beneath the 

sun, 
The world which credits what is 
done 
Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame ; 
But somewhere, out of human view, 
Whatever thy hands are set to do 

Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 

LXXV. 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend, 
And in a moment'set thv face 



Where all the starry heavens of 
space 
Are sharpen'd to a needle's end ; 

Take wings of foresight; lighten thro' 
The secular abyss to come, 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew ; 

And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
Thine own shall wither in the vast. 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these, have clothed their branchy 
bowers 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain ; 
I And what are they when these re- 
main 
The ruin'd shells of hollov/ towers? 



LXXVI, 

What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him who turns a musing eye ' 
On songs, and deeds, and li-ves, tTiat 
lie 

Foreshorten'd in the tract of time .^ 

These mortal lullabies of pain 
May bind a book, may line a box, 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks; 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find. 

And, passing, turn the page that 

tells [else, 

A grief, then changed to something 

Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that ? My darkened ways 
Shall ring with music all the same ; 
To breathe my loss is more than 
fame, 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 

LXXVI I. 

Agaln* at Christmas did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
The silent snow possess'd the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: 



IN MEMORIAM. 



199 



The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind, 

Again our ancient games had place. 
The mimic picture's breathing grace, 

And dance and song and hoodman- 
blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress ? 
No single tear, no mark of pain : 

sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 
O grief, can grief be changed to less ? 

O last regret, regret can die ! 

No, — mixt with all this mystic frame. 
Her deep relations are the same, 

"But with long use her tears are dry, 

Lxxviir. 

" More than my brothers are to me," 

Let this not vex thee, noble heart ! 

1 know thee of what force thou art 
To hold the costliest love in fee. 

But thou and I are one in kind, 
As moulded like in nature's mint; 
And hill and wood and field did print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curl'd 
Thro' all his eddying coves ; the 

same 
All winds that roam the twih'ght 
came 
In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we proffer'd vows. 
One lesson from one book we 

learn'd. 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd 

To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine, 
But he was rich where I was poor, 
And he supplied my wants the more 

As his unlikeness fitted mine. 



If any vague desire should rise, 
That holv Death ere Arthur died 



Had moved me kindly from his side, 
And dropt the dust on tearless eyes ; 

Then fancy shapes, as fancy can. 
The grief my loss in him had 

wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought. 

But stay'd in peace with God and man. 

I make a picture in the brain ; 

I hear the sentence that he speaks ; 

He bears the burthen of the weeks : 
But turns his burthen into gain. 

His credit thus shall set me free ; 

And, influence-rich to soothe and 
save. 

Unused example from the grave 
Reach out dead hands to comfort me. 

LXXX. 

Could I have said while he was here, 
" My love shall now no further 

range ; 
There cannot come a mellower 
change, " 
For now is love mature in ear." 

Love, then, had hope of richer store : 
What end is here to my complaint.' 
This haunting whisper makes me 
faint, 
" More years had made me love thee 
more." 

But Death returns an answer sweet : 
*' My sudden frost was sudden gain, 
And gave all ripeness to the grain 

It might have drawn from after-heat." 

LXXX I. 

I WAGE not my feud with Death 

For changes wrought on form and 

face ; 
No lower life that earth's embrace 
May breed with him can fright my 
faith. 

Eternal process moving on, 

From state to state the spirit walks ; 

And these are but the shatter'd 
stalks, 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 



200 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth : 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 
The wrath that garners in my heart ; 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 



Dir down upon the northeri. shore, . 
O sweet new-year, delaying long : 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded 
noons, 

Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 

Can trouble live with April days, 
Or sadness in the summer moons ? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire. 
The little speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

O thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud, 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 



When I contemplate all alone 
The life that had been thine below. 
And fixed my thoughts on all the 
glow 
To which thy crescent would have 
grown. 

T see thee sitting crown'd with good, 
A central warmth diffusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp and 
kiss, 

On all the branches of ihy blood ; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine 
For now the day was drawing on 
When thou shouldst link thy life with 
one 

Of mine own house, and bovs of thine 



Had babbled " Uncle " on my knee ; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange-flower, 

Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire, 
To clap their cheeks, to call them 

mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honor'd guest, 
Thy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk. 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest ; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lips of men with honest praise, 
And sun by sun the happy days 

Descend below the golden hills. 

"With promise of a morn as fair ; 
And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct by paths of growing powers 

To reverence and the silver hair; 

Till slowly worn by earthly robe. 
Her lavish mission richly wrought, 
Leaving great legacies of thought, 

Thy spirit should fail from off the 
globe ; 

What time mine own might also flee. 
As link'd with thine in love and fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous 
strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee, 

Arrive at last the blessed goal 
And He that died in Holy Land 
W^ould reach us out the shining 
hand, 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant ? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The low beginnings of content ? 

LXXXIV. 
This truth came borne with bier and 
pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost, 
Than never to have loved at all 



JN MEMORIAM. 



20I 



O true in word, and tried in deed, 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common grief. 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow or sustain'd ; 
And whether love for him have 
drain'd 

My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast, 
Thro' light reproaches, half exprest, 

And loyal unto kindly laws. 

My blood an even tenor kept, 

Till on mine ear this message falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state, 
In circle round the blessed gate, 

Received and gave him welcome there • 

And led him thro' the blissful climes. 
And show'd him in the fountain 

fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But-I remain' d, whose hopes were dim, 
Whose life, whose thoughts were 

little worth, 
To wander on a darken'd earth, 
Where all things round me breathed of 
him. 

(J friendship, equal-poised control, 
O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 
O solemn ghost, O crowned soul I 

Vet none could better know than I, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel tho' left alone. 
His being working in mine ow 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 



I 

; A life that all the ]\Iuses deck'd 
I With gifts of grace, that might 
' express 

! All -comprehensive tenderness. 
All-subtilizing intellect : 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind, 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe, 
j That loved to handle spiritual strife, 
! Diffused the shock thro' all my life. 

But in the present broke the blow. 



' My pulses therefore beat again 
I For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 
The mighty hope that make us men. 

I woo your love : I count it crime 
To mourn for any overmuch ; 
I, the divided half of such 

A friendship as had master'd Time ; 

Which masters Tim.e indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears ;. 
The all-assuming months and years 

Can take no part away from this : 

But Summer on the steaming floods. 

And Spring that swells the narrow 
brooks, 

And Autumn, with a noise of rooks. 
That gather in the waning woods. 

And every pulse of wind and wave 
Recalls, in change of light or gloom, 
My old affection of the tomb. 

And my prime passion in the grave : 

My old affection of the tomb, 
A part of stillness, yearns to speak : 
" Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

j " I watch thee from the quiet shore ; 
I Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 
But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more." 

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it .'' Canst thou feel for me 
; Some painless sympathy with pain .'' " 



203 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And lightly does the whisper fall : 
"'Tis hard for thee to fathom this : 
I triumph in conclusive bliss, 

And that serene result of all." 

So hold I commerce with the dead ; 

Or so methinks the dead would say ; 

Or so shall grief with symbols play, 
And pining life be fancy-fed. , 

Now looking to some settled end, 
That these things pass, and I shall 

prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with 
love, 
I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 

If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 
The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, first friendship, equal 
powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore. 
That beats within a lonely place. 
That yet remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no more. 

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone. 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living breast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
The primrose of the later year, 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 



Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
That rollest from the gorgeous 

gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tasselTd wood, 
And shadowing down the horned 
flood 

III ripples, fan my brows and blow 



The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy 

breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt 
and Death, 
111 brethren let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 
On leagues of odor streaming far. 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits, whisper '' Peace." 



I PAST beside the reverend walls 
In which of old I wore the gown ; 
I roved at random thro' the town, 

And saw the tumult of the halls; 

And heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their high-built organs 

make. 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophets blazon'd on the panes; 

And caught once more the distant 
shout. 
The measured pulse of racing oars 
Among the willows ; paced the 
shores 
And many a bridge, and all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the same ; *and 

last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on the door : 
I linger'd; all within was noise 
Of songs, and clapping hands, and 
boys 
•That crash'd the glass and beat the 
floor; 

Where once we held debate, a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind and art, 
And labor, and the changing mart, 

And all the framework of the land; 

When one would aim an arrow fair, 
But send it slackly from the string; 
And one would pierce an outer ring, 

And one an inner, here and there ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And last the master-bowman, he 
Would cleave the mark. A willing 

ear 
We lent him. Who, but hung to 
hear 
The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, wilh power and 
grace 
And music in the bounds of law, 
To those conclusions when we saw 

The God within him light his face, 

And seem to lift the form, and glow 
In azure orbits heavenly-wise; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Michael Angelo, 

LXXXVII. 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet. 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 

tell me where the senses mix, 
O tell me where the passions meet, 

Whence radiate : tierce extremes em- 
ploy 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy : 

And I — my harp would prelude woe — ■ 

1 cannot all command the strings : 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 

L::>xxvin. 

Witch-elms that counterchange the 
floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and 

bright; 
And thou, with all thy breadth and 
height 
Of foliage, towering sycamore; 

How often, hither wandering down, 
My Arthur found your shadows fair. 
And shook to all the liberal air 

The dust and din and steam of town : 

He brought an eye for all he saw ; 
He mixt in all our simple sports ; 



1 hey pleased him, fresh from broil- 
ing courts 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

O joy to him in this retreat, 
immantled in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the heat : 

O sound to rout the brood of cares, 
The sweep of scythe in mornmg 

dew, 
The gust that round the garden flew, 

And tumbled half the mellowing pears ! 

O bliss, when all in circle drawn 
About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poet on the lawn : 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 
A guest, or happy sister, sung, 
Or here she brought the harp and 
flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon: 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray. 
And break the livelong summer "day 

With banquet in the distant woods; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to 
theme, 
Discuss'd the books to love or hate. 
Or touch'd the changes of the state, 

Or threaded some Socratic dream ; 

But if I praised the busy town, ' 

He loved to rail against it still, 
For "ground in yonder social mill, 

We rub each other's angles down, 

"And merge," he said, "in form and 
gloss 
The picturesque of man and man." 
We talk'd : the stream beneath us 
ran, 
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss, 

Or cool'd within the glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar. 
Before the crimson-circled star 

Had fall'n into her father's grave, 



204 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, _ 
We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail, 

And buzzings of the honeyed hours. 



He tasted love with half his mind, 
Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Where nighest heaven, who first 
could fling 

This bitter seed among mankind : 

That could the dead, whose dying eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume their 

life, 
They would but find in child and 
wife 
An iron welcome when they rise : 

'Twas well, indeed, when warm with 
wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear, 
To talk them o'er, to wish them 
here, 
To count their memories half divine ; 

But if they came who passed away. 
Behold their brides in other hands ; 
The hard heir strides about their 
lands, 

And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tho' their sons were none of these, 
Not less the yet-loved sire would 

make 
Confusion worse than death, and 
shake 
The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me : 
Whatever change the years have 

wrought 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 

xc. 

When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 
And rarely pipes the mounted 

thrush ; 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits bv the sea-blue bird of March ; 



Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers; 
The hope of unaccomplish'd years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly -mellowing 
change 
May breathe, with many roses sweet, 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat. 

That ripple round the lonely grange ; 

Come : not in watches of the night. 
But where the sunbeam broodeth 

warm, 
Come, beauteous in thine after form. 

And like a finer light in light. 

xci. 

If any vision should reveal 

Thy likeness, I might count it vain, 
As but the canker of the brain ; 

Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 
Together in the days behind. 
I might but sa}', I hear a wind 

Of memory murmuring the past. 

Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view 
A fact within the coming year ; 
And tho' the months, revolving near, 

Should prove the phantom-warning 
true. 

They might not seem thy prophecies. 
But spiritual presentiments, 
And such refraction of events 

As often rises ere thev rise. 



I SHALL not see thee. Daie I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native land, 

Where first he walk'd when claspt in 
clay ^ 

No visual shade of some one lost, 
But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense i^ 
numb ; 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 



IN MEMO Rl AM. 



2oi 



O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss, 
O, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 
The wish too strong for words to 

name ; 
That in this blindness of the frame 

Mv Ghost may feel that thine is near. 



How pure at heart and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold, 
Should be the man whose thought 
would hold 

xA-u hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or an}', call 
The spirits rom their golden day. 
Except, like them, thou too canst 
say. 

My spiVit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast. 
Imaginations calm and fair. 
The memory like a cloudless air. 

The conscience as a sea at rest 

But when the heart is full of din. 
And doubt beside the portal waits. 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the hou^iehold jar within. 

• f 

XCIV. 

By night we linger'd on the lawn, 
For underfoot the herb was dry ; 
And genial warmth ; and o'er the 
sky 

The silvery haze of summer drawn ; 

And calm that let the tapers burn 
Unwavering : not a cricket chirr'd : 
The brook alone far-off was heard. 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 

And bats went round in fragrant skies, 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine 
capes 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; 



While now we sang old songs that 
peal'd 
From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd 

at ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the 
trees 
Laid their dark, arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one. 
Withdrew themselves from me and 

night. 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart; I read 
Of that glad year that once had been, 
In those faji'n leaves which kept 
their green. 

The noble letters of the dead : 

And sl;i-angely on the silence broke 
The silent-speaking words, and 

strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying change 

To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 
On doubts that drive the coward 

back. 
And keen thro' wordy snares to track 

Suggestion to her immost cell. 

So word by word, and line by line. 
The dead man touch'd me from the 

past, 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

His living soul was flash'd on mine, 

And mine in his was wound, and whirl'd 
About empyreal heights of thought. 
And came on that which is, and 
caught 
The deep pulsations of the world, 
i 

! Ionian music measuring out 
i The steps of Time, the shocks of 
Chance, 
The blows of Death. At length my 
trance 
Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with 
doubt. 



TJV MEMO RI AM. 



Tague words I but ah, how hard to 
frame 
In matter-moulded forms of speech, 
Or ev'n for intellect to reach 

Thro' memory that which I became : 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 
The knoll once more where, couch'd 

at ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the 
trees 
Laid lh2 r dark arms about the field : 

And suck'd from out the distant gloom, 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore, 

And fluctuate all the still perfume, 

And gathering freshlier overhead, 
Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, and 
swung 
- The heavy-folded rose, and flung 
The lilies to and fro, and said, 

' The dawn, the dawn," and died away ; 
And East and West, without 'a 

breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, like life and 
death. 
To broaden into boundless day. 



You say, but with no touch of scorn. 
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue 

eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies. 

You tell me, doubt is Devil born. 

I know not : one indeed I knew 
In many a subtle question versed, 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 
At last he beat his music out. 
There lives more faith in honest 
doubt, 

Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gather'd 
strength, 
He would not make his judgment 

blind. 
He faced the spectres of the mind 
And laid them : thus he came at length 



To find a stronger faith his own ; 
And Power was with him in the 

night, 
Which makes the darkness and the 
light, 
And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 

XCVI. 

My love has talk'd with rocks and 
trees ; 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crown'd ; 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life, — 
I look'd on these, and thought of 

thee 
In vastness and in mystery, 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on 
eye. 
Their hearts of old have beat intune, 
Their meetings made December 
June, 
Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits 'apart. 

He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
Tho' rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of tlie mind. 
He reads the secret of the star. 
He seems so near and yet so far. 

He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of j'ears before, 
A wither'd violet is her bliss: 
She knows not what his greatness is : 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house, 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 



IN MEMORIAllL 



207 



Her faith is fixt and cannot move, 
She darkly feels him great and wise, 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

" I cannot understand : I love." 



XCVII. 

Vou leave us : you will see the Rhine, 1 
And those fair hills I sail'd below, 
When I was there with him; and go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath, \ 
That City. All her splendor seems j 
No livelier than the wisp that gleams 

On Lethe in the eyes of Death. j 

Le*- her great Danube rolling fair 
Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me ; 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna ; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal; friend from 

friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey 
By each cold hearth, and sadness 

'flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings : 
And vet mvself have heard him say. 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves ; nor more content, 
He told m.e, lives in any crowd. 
When all is gay with lamps, and 
loud 
With sport and song, in booth and 
tent, 

Imperial halls, or open plain ; 

And wheels the circled dance, and 
breaks 

The rocket molten into flakes 
Of crimson or in emerald rain. 



XCVIII. 

RiSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
So loud with voices of the birds. 
So thick with lowings of the herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

Who tremblest.thro' thy darkling red 
On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles 

fast 
By meadows breathing of the past, 

And woodlands holy to the dead ; 

Vvlio murmurest in the foliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming care, 
And Autumn laying here and there 

A fiery finger on the leaves ; 

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath, 
To myriads on the genial earth. 
Memories of bridal, or of birth. 

And unto myriads more of death. 

O, wheresoever those may be, 
Betwixt the slumber of the poles, 
To-day they count as kindred souls ; 
They know me not, but mourn with 
me. 

XCIX. 

I CLIMB the hill : from end to end 
Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold. 
Or low morass and whispering reed, 
Or simple stile from mead to mead, 

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 

No hoary knoll of ash and haw 
That hears the latest linnet trill, 
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill, 

And haunted by the wrangling daw ; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock : 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thro' meadowy 
curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye, 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 



2o8 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall 
sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down, 
Unloved, that beech will gather 
brown. 
This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, 
Ray round with flames her disk of 

seed, 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air ; 

Unloved, b}' many a sandy bar, 
The brook shall babble down the 

plain, 
At noon, or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round the polar star ; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove. 
And flood the haunts of hern and 

crake ; 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 

Till from the garden and the wild 

A fresh association blow, 

And year by year the landscape 
grow. 
Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 
His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; 
And year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 

CI. 

We leave the well-beloved place 
Where first we gazed upon the sky ; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest 
cry, 

Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home, 
As down the garden-walks I move, 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, thy boyhood sung 

Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

In native hazels tassel-hung. 



The other answers, "Yea, but here 
Thy feet have strayed in after hours 
Wi'th thy lost friend among the 
bowers. 

And this hath made them trebly dear." 

These two have striven half the day. 
And each prefers his separate clay, 
Poor rivals in a losing game. 

That will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go : my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and 
farms ; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To one pure image of regret. 

CII. 

On that last night before we went 
From out the doors where I was 

bred, 
T dream'd a vision of the dead, 

Which left my after-morn content. 

Methought I dwelt within a hall, 
And maidens with me : distant hills 
From hidden summits fed with rills 

A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 
They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veil'd, to which they sang ; 

And which tho' veil'd was known to 
me. 
The shape of him I loved, and love 
Forever : then flew in a dove 

And brought a summons from the sea r 

And when they learnt that I must go. 
They wept and wail'd, but led the 

way 
To where a little shallop lay 

At anchor in the flood below ; 

And on by many a level mead. 

And shadowing bluff that made the 
banks, 
We glided winding under ranks 
Of iris, and the golden reed \ 



IN MEMORIAM. 



209 



And still as vaster grew the shore, 
And roU'd the floods in grander 

space, 
The maidens gather'd strength and 
grace 
And presence, lordlier than before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, wax'd in every 
limb ; 

I felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 

As one would sing the death of war, 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race which is to be, 

And one the shaping of a star ; 

Until the forward-creeping tides 
Began to foam, and we to draw. 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck. 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on his neck : 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 
Bewail'd their lot ; I did them wrong : 
" We served thee here," they said, 
" so long, 

And wilt thou leave us now behind ? " 

So rapt I was, they could not win 
An answer from my lips, but he 
Replying, " Enter likewise ye 

And go with us " : they enter'd in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud, 
We steer'd her toward a crimson 
cloud 

That landlike slept along the deep. 

cm. 

The time draws near the birth of 
Christ : 

The moon is hid, the night is still ; 

A single church below the hill 
As pealing, folded in the mist. 



A single peal of bells below, 
That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast, 

That these are not the bells I know. 

Like stranger's voices here they sound, 
In lands where not a memory strays, 
Nor landmark breathes of other days, 

But all is new unhallow'd ground. 



This holly by the CQttage-eave, 

To-night, ungather'd, shall it stand : 
We live within the stranger's land, 

And strangely falls our Chrismas-eve. 

Our father's dust is left alone 
And silent under other snows : 
There in due time the woodbine 
blows, * . 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
The genial hour with mask and 

mime ; 
For change of place, like growth of 
time. 
Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast, 
By which our lives are chiefly proved, 
A little spare the night I loved, 

And hold it solemn to the past 

But let no footstep beat the floor, 
Nor bowl nor wassil mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient form 

Thro' which the spirit breathes no 
more ? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; 

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be 
blown ; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer in the seed ; 

Run out your measured arcs, and 
lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 



210 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Ring out wild bells to the wild sky, 
Thy flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die 

Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful 
rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land. 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 



It is the day when he wa? born, 
A bitter day that early sank 
Behind a purple-frosty bank 

Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
The blast of North and East, and 
ice 

Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, 



And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 
Above the wood which grides and 
clangs 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass 
To darken on the rolling brine 
That breaks the coast. But fetch 
the wine, 

Arrange the board and brim the glass; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie. 
To make a solid core of heat; 
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 

Of all things ev'n as he were by ; 

We keep the day. With festal cheer, 
With books and music, surely we 
W^ill drink to him whate'er he be. 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 



I WILL not shut me from my kind, 
And, lest I stiffen into stone, 
I will not eat my heart alone, 

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

What profit lies in barren faith, 

And vacant yearning, tho'' with might 
To scale the heaven's highest height, 

Or dive below the wells of Death ? 

What find I in the highest place. 
But mine own phantom chanting 

hymns ? 
And on the depths of death there 
swims 
The reflex of a human face. 

I'll rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies : 
'Tis held that sorrow makes us 
WMse, 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 



Heart-affluence in discursive talk 
From household fountains never 

dry ; 
The critic clearness of an eye. 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk j 



IiV MEMORIAL. 



211 



Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of 
man ; 

Impassion'd logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course; 

High nature amorous of the good, 
But touch'd with no ascetic gloom; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 
Of freedom in her regal seat 
Of England; not the school-boy 
heat. 

The blind hysterics of the Celt; 

And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the child would 

twine 
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine, 

And find his comfort in thy face; 

All these have been, and thee mine 
eyes 
Have look'd on: if they look'd in 

vain, 
My shame is greater who remain, 
Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 



Thy converse drew us with delight, 
The men of rathe and riper years : 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung, 

The proud was half disarm'd of 

pride, 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert 

The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen fool 
Was soften'd, and he knew not why ; 

While I, thy dearest, sat apart, 
And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
And loved them more, that they 
were thine, 

The graceful tact, the Christian art 



Not mine the sweetness or the skill 
But mine the love that will not tire, 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 
ex. 

The churl in spirit, up or down 
Along the scale of ranks, thro' all, 
To him who grasps a golden ball, 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
His want in forms for fashion's 

sake. 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale : 

For who can always act ? but he. 
To whom a thousand memories call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be, 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and 
join'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever narrovmess or spite. 
Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an eye, 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 
The grand old name of gentleman. 
Defamed by every charlatan. 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 

CXI. 

High wisdom holds my wisdom less, 
That I, who gaze with temperate 

eyes 
On glorious insufficiencies, 

Set light by narrov,-er perfectness. 

But thou, that fillest all the room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou? some novel 
power 
Sprang up forever at a touch. 
And hope could never hope too 
much, . 
In watching thee from hour to hour, 



212 



IJV ME MORI AM. 



Large elements in order brought, 
And tracks of calm from tempest 

made, 
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 

CXII. 

Tis held that sorrow makes us wise ; 

Yet how much wisdom sleeps with 
thee 

Which not alone had guided me, 
But served the seasons that may rise ; 

For can I doubt who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have 
been : 

A life in civic action warm, 
A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

Should licensed boldness gather force, 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course, 

With thousand shocks that come and 

With agonies, with energies. 
With overthrowings, and with cries. 
And undulations to and fro. 



Who loves not Knowledge .^ Who 
shall rail 
Against her beauty .'* May she mix 
With men and prosper ! Who shall 
fix 
Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire : 
She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance, 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain, 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and 
faith. 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 



Of Demons '^. fiery-hot to burst 
All barriers in her onward race 
For power. Let her know her 
place ; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain : and guide 
Her footsteps, movuig side by side 

With wisdom, like the younger child : 

For she is earthly of the mind. 
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O friend, who camest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like 
thee. 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and 
hour 
In reverence and in charitv. 



Now fades the last long streak of 
snow, 
Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and 
thick 
By ashen roots riie violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and 
long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue. 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and 
lea. 
The flocks are whiter down the 

vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 
On winding stream or distant sea ; 

Wliere now the seamew pipes, or 
dives 
In yonder gleaming green, and fly 
The happy birds that change their 
sky 
To build and brood; that live their 
lives 



JN MEMORIAM. 



213 



From land to land : and in my breast 
Spring wakens loo ; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

cxv. 
Is it, then, regret for buried time 
That keenlier in sweet April wakes, 
And meets the year, and gives and 
takes 
The colors of the crescent prime ? 

Not all : the songs, the stirring air, 
The life re-onent out of dust, 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust 

In that which made the world so fair. 

Xot all regret : the face will shine 
Upon me, while I muse alone ; 
And that dear voice I once have 
known 

Still speak to me of me and mine : 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

For days of happy commune dead ; 
Less yearning for the friendship fled. 

Than 5ome strong bond which is to be. 

cxvi. . 

O DAYS and hours, your work is this, 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace. 

For fuller gain of after, bliss ; 

That out of distance might ensue 
Desire of nearness doubly sv.-eet ; 
And unto meeting when we meet. 

Delight a hundred-fold accrue, 

For every grain of sand that runs, 
And every span of shade that steals, 
And every kiss of toothed wheels, 

And all the courses of the suns. 

CXVII. 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youth; 
Nor dream of human love and truth. 

As dying Nature's earth and lime; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day, 



Forever nobler ends. They say, 
The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 
And grew to seeming-random forms. 
The seeming prey of cyclic storm.s, 

Till at the last arose the man ; 



Who throve and branch'd from clime 
to clime 
The herald of a higher race. 
And of himself in higher place 

If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 
Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and 
show 

That life is not as idle ore. 



But iron dug from central gloom,- 
And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears, 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; 
Move upward, working out the beast, 

And let the ape and tiger die. 

CXVII I. 

Doors, where my heart was used to 
beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more ; th.e city sleeps ; 

I smell the meadow in the street ; 

I hear a chirp of birds ; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long with- 
drawn 
A light-blue lane of early dawn, 

And think of early days and theC, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, 
And bright the friendship of thine 

eye : 
And in nay thoughts with scarce a 
sigh 
I take the pressure of thine hand 



214 



IN MEMORIAM. 



I TRUST I have not wasted breath ; 
I think we are not wholly brain, 
Magnetic mocl^eries ; not in vain, 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with 
Death. 

Xot only cunning casts in clay : 
Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men. 

At least to me ? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 
Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action, like the greater ape, 

But I was born to other things. 

cxx. 

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun. 
And ready, thou, to die with him 
Thou watchest all things ever dim 

And dimmer, and a glory done: 

The team is loosen'd from the wain. 
The boat is drawn upon the shore ; 
Thou listenest to the closing door, 

And life is darken'd in the brain. 

Bright Phosplior, fresher for the night, 
By thee the world's great work is 

heard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird : 

Behind thee comes the greater light : 

The market boat is on the stream, 
And voices hail it from the brink; 
Thou hear'st the village hanmier 
clink, 

And see'st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last, 
Thou, like my present and my past, 

Thy place is changed; thou art the 



cxxi. 

(), WAST thou with me, dearest, then. 
While I rose up against my doom. 
And yearn'd to burst the folded 
gloom 

To bare the eternal Heavens again, 



I To feel once more, in placid awe, 
1 The strong imagination roll 
j A sphere of stars about my soul, 
In all her motion one with law. 

; If thou wert with me, and the grave 
j Divide us not, be with me now, 
I And enter in at breast and brow. 
Till all my blood, a fuller wave, 

Be quickened v/ith a livelier breath, 
And live an inconsiderate boy, 
As in the former flash of jo}', 

I slip the thoughts of life and death : 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows, 
And every dew-drop paints a bow, 
The wizard lightnings deeply glow, 

And every thought breaks out a rose. 

CXXII. 

There rolls the deep where grew the 
tree. 
O earth, what changes thou hast 

seen ! 
There where the long street roars, 
hath been 
The stillness of the central sea. 

' The hills are shadows, and they flow 
From form to form, and nothing 

stands ; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands, 
Like clouds they shape themselves and 

go- 
But in my spirit will I dwell, 
And dream my dream, and hold it 

true; 
For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 



That which we dare invoke to bless ; 
Our dearest faith ; our ghastliest 

doubt ; 
He, They, One, All ; within, with- 
out ; 
The Power in darkness whom we 
guess ; 



IN MEMORIAL. 



I found Him not in world or sun, 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye : 
Nor thro' the questions men mav 
try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun : 

If e'er, when faith had fall'n asleep, 
I heard a voice, " Believe no more," 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep : 

A warmth within the breast would 
melt 
The freezing reasons' colder part, 
And like a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answer'd, " I have felt." 

No, like a child in doubt and fear : 
But that blind clamor made me 

wise ; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

But, crying, knows his father near ; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding 
men. 

CXXIV. 

Whatever I have said or sung. 
Some bitter notes my harp would 

give, 
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live 

A contradiction on the tongue, 

Yet Hope had never lost her youth : 
She did but look thro' ' dimmer 

eyes ; 
Or Love but play'd with gracious 
lies 
Because he felt so fix'd in truth : 

And if the song were full of care, 
He breathed the spirit of the song ; 
And if the words were sweet and 
strong. 

He set his royal signet there ; 

Abiding with me till I sail 

To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric force,' that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 



cxxv. 

Love is and was my Lord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend. 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
Within his court on earth, and sleep 

Encompass'd by his faithful guard, 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to 
place. 

And whisjDers to the worlds of space, 
In the deep night, that all is well. 



cxxvr. 

And all is well, tho' faith and form 
Be sunder'd in the night of fear : 
Well roars the storm to those that 
I hear 

A deeper voice across the storm, 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread. 
And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown, 
And him, the lazar, fn his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining crags ; 

The spires of ice are toppled down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 
The fortress crashes from on high. 
The brute earth lightens to the sky. 

And the great &o\\. sinks ir^blood. 

And compass'd by the fires of Hell ; 
While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar, 

And smilest, knowing all is well. 



Tke love that rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied when we met v/ith Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 



2l5 



AV MEMORIAM. 



Xo doubt vast eddies in the flood 
Of onward time shall yet be made, 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet, O ye mysteries of good, 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and 
Fear, 

If all your office had to do 

With old results that look like new ; 
If this were all your mission here, 

'I'o draw, to sheathe a useless sword, 
To fool the crowd with glorious lies. 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries, 

To change the bearing of a word, 

To shift an arbitrary power, 
To cramp the student at his desk, 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower ; 

Why then my scorn might well descend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art, 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 

CXXVIII. 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near in woe and weal ; 
O loved the most, when most I feel 

There is a lowar and a higher ; 

Known and unknown ; human, divine ; 

Sweet human hand and lips and eye ; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not 
die. 
Mine, mine, forever, ever mine ; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to 
be; 

Love deeplier, darklier understood ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good. 
And minsile all the world with thee. 



"]'hy voice is on the rolling an- ; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting? thou art fair. 



What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less : 

I\fy love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature 
thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 



cxxx. 

O LIVING will that shalt endure 

W'hen all that seems shall suffer 

shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock. 
Flow thro' our deeds and make them 
pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trusts 

With faith that comes of self-control. 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved. 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 

O TRUE and tried, so well and long, 
Demand not thou a marriage lay ; 
In that it is thy marriage day 

Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 
Since first he told me that he loved 
A daughter of our house ; nor proved 

Since that dark day a day like this ; 

Tho' I since then have number'd o'er 
Some thrice three years : they went 

and came, 
Remade the blood and changed the 
frame, 
And vet is love not less, but m.ore ; 



IN MEMO RI AM. 



11 



No longer caring to embalm 
In dying songs a dead regret, 
But like a statue solid-set. 

And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 

Than in the. summers that are flown, 
For I myself with these have grown 

To something greater than before ; 

Which makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times, 
As half but idle brawling rhymes, 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

Eut where is she, the bridal flower. 
That must be made a wife ere noon ? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower : 

On me she bends her blissful eyes, 
And then on thee ; they meet thy 

look 
And brighten like the star that shook 

Eetwixt the palms of paradise. 

O when her life was yet in bud, 
He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she grew^, for thee she 
grows 

F'orever, and as fair as good. 

.\nd thou art worthy ; full of power ; 
As gentle ; liberal-minded, great. 
Consistent ; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But liow set out : the moon is near, 
And I must give away the bride ; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

And me behind her, will not fear : 

For I that danced her on my knee, 
That watch'd her on her nurse's arm. 
That shielded all her life from harm. 

At last must part with her to thee ; 

Now waiting to be made a wife, 
Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; 
Their pensive tablets round her 
head. 

And the most livinc: words of life 



Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 
The "wilt thou," answer'd, and 

again 
The " wilt thou " ask'd, till out of 
tw-ain 
Her sweet " I will " has made ye one. 

Now sign your names, which shall be 
read, 
J^Iute symbols of a joyful morn, 
I By village eyes as yet unborn ; 
I The names are sign'd, and overhead 

Begins the clash and clang that tells 
The joy to every wandering breeze; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the 
trees 

The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happv hour, and happier hours 
Await them. Many a merry face 
Salutes them — maidens of the place, 

That pelt us in the porch with flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass the 
grave 

That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day the grave is bright for me, 
For them the light of life increased. 
Who stay to share the morning feast. 

Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 
To meet and greet a whiter sun ; 
ISIy drooping memory will not shun 

The foaming grape of Eastern France. 

It circles round, and fancy plays. 
And hearts are warm'd, and faces 

bloom, 
As drinking health to bride and 
groom 
We wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest, 
Perchance, perchance, among the 
rest. 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 



2lS 



IN ME MORI AM. 



But they must go, the time draws on, 
And those v.'hite-favor'd horses wait ; 
They rise, but linger ; it is late ; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 
From little cloudlets on the grass. 
But sweeps away as out we pass 

To range the woods, to roam the park^ 

Discussing how their courtship grew, 
And talk of others that are wed, 
And how she look'd, and what she 
said. 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the s?peech the glee. 
The shade of passing thought, the 

wealth 
Of words and wit, the double health. 
The crowning cup, the three-times- 
three, 

And last the dance ; — till I retire : 
Dumb is that tower which spake so 

loud, 
And high in heaven the streaming 
cloud. 
And on the downs a rising fire ; 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down, 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the shining vapor sail 

And pass the silent-lighted town. 

The white-faced halls, the glancing 
rills, 
And catch at every mountain head. 
And o'er the friths that branch and 
spread 
Their sleeping silver thro' the hills ; 



And touch with shade the bridal doors, 
With tender gloom the roof, the 

wall ; 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 

And, moved thro' life of lower phase, 
Result in man. be born and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 

n kno 

mand 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their 

hand 
Is Nature like an open book ; 

No longer half-akin to brute. 

For all we thought and loved and 
did. 

And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed 
Of what in them is flower and fruit ; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe, 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves, 
One God, one law, one element, 
And one far-off divine event. 

To which the whole creation moves. 



MAUD. 219 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS. 



MAUD 
I. 



I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, 
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heat 
The red ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers " Death. 



Yiix there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, 
His who had given me life — O father ! O God ! was it well ? — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground 
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. 



Did he fling himself down .' who knows ) for a vast speculation had far 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair, 
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd, 



And the flving gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the 



air. 



I rememlier the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd 

By a shuffled step, by a dead w^eight trail'd, by a whisper'd fright. 

And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard 

The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. 

S- 

Villany somewhere ! whose ? One says, we are villains all. 
Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be maintain'd : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, 
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain'd. 



^Vhy do they prate of the blessings of Peace } we have made them a curse, 

Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own; 

And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 

Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone ? 



220 MAUD. 



But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind, 
When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word ? 
Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 



Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 

Of the golden age — why not ? I have neither hope nor trust ; 

May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, 

Cheat and be cheated, and die : who knows ? we are ashes and dust. 



Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by. 

When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, like swine, 

When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie ; 

Peace in her vineyard — yes ! — but a company forges the wine. 



And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head, 
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife, 
While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, 
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life. 



And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villanous centre-bits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights. 
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sit% 
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights. 



When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee. 
And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones, 
Is it peace or war "i better, war ! loud war by land and by sea, 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a'hundred thrones. 

13- 

For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill. 
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam. 
That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his counter and till, 
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home. — 



What I am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood ? 
Must /too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and die 
.Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a Avretched swindler's lie ,'' 



MAUD. 22 1 



15. 

Would there be sorrow for me ? there was love in the passionate shriek. 
Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave — 
Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. 

16. 

I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. 
Why should I stay ? can a sweeter chance ever come to me here ? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain, 
Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and the fear ? 

There are workmen up at the Hall : they are coming back from abroad 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionnaire : 
I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud; 
I play'd with the girl when a child ; she promised then to be fair. 

18. 

Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes, 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all, — 

19. 

What is she now ? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor ; she will let me alone. 
Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse. 
I will bury myself in my books, and the Devil may pipe to his own. 

II. 

LoxG have I sigh'd for a calm : God grant I may find it at last ! 

It will never be broken bv Maud, she has neither savor nor salt. 

But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past, 

Perfectly -feeautiful : let it be granted her: where is the fault ? 

All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) 

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, 

Dead perfection, no more; nothing more, if it had not been 

For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of the rose, 

Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full. 

Or the least delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, 

From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen. 

III. 

Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek, 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd. 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead'on the cheek, 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profeund ; 



m MAUD. 



Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before 
Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound, x 

Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no more, 
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground, 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwrecking roar, 
Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down by the wave, 
Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. 

IV. 
I. 

A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 
In the little grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland, 
When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer clime, 
Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea, 
The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the land ? 



Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small ! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite ; 
And Jack on his alehouse bench has as many lies as a Czar ; 
And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the Hall ; 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light ; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! 

3- 

When have I bow'd to her father the wrinkled head of the race ? 
I met her to-day with her brother but no to her brother I bow'd ; 
I bow'd to his lady- sister as she rode by on the moor ; 
But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face. 

child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud ; 
Your father has wealth well-go'tten, and I am nameless and poor. 

4- 

1 keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal ; 
I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like 

A wiser epicurean, and let the worlcl have its way : 

For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; 

The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrike, 

And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. 

5 

We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower, 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game 
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed ? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame; 
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 



MAUD. 



223 



A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, 
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, 
So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man : 
He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not too base ? 



The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain. 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more 
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice. 



For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. 

Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about ? 

Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 

Shall I weep if a Poland fall .? shall'l shriek if a Hungary fail ? 

Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout .-' 

I have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. 



Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways, 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot, 

Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub of lies ; 

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise, 

Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not, 

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. 

10 

And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, 
The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. 
Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. 
Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above ; 
Yoar father is ever in London, you wander about at your will ; 
You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life. 



V. 



A VOICE by the cedar-tree. 

In the meadow under the Hall ! 

She is singing an air that is known to 

me, 
A passionate ballad gallant and gav, 
A martial song like a trumpet's call I 
Singing alone in the morning of life, 



In the happy morning of life and of May 
Singing of men that in battle array, 
Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
March with banner and bugle and fife 
To the death, for their native land. 



Maud with her exquisite face, 
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny 
sky, 



224 



MA UD. 



And feet like sunny gems on an Eng- 
lish green, 

Maud in the light of her youth and her 
grace, 

Singing of Death, and of Honor that 
cannot die, 

Till I well could weep for a time so 
sordid and mean. 

And mvself so languidand base. 



Silence, beautiful voice ! 

Be still, for you only trouble the mind 

With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 

A glory I shall not find. 

Still ! I will hear you no more, 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a 

choice 
But to move to the meadow and fall 

before 
Her feet on the meadow grass, and 

adore, 
Not her, who is neither courtly nor 

kind, 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 

VI. 

I. 

Morning arises stormy and pale, 
No sun, but a wannish glare 
In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, 
And the budded peaks of the wood | 
are bow'd I 

Caught and cuff'd by the gale : I 

I had fancied it would be fair. { 



Whom but Maud should I meet 
Last night, when the sunset burn'd 
On the blossom'd gable-ends 
At the head of the village street, 
Whom but Maud should I meet t 
And she touch'd my hand with a smile 

so sweet 
She made me divine amends 
For a courtesy not return'd. 



And thus a delicate spark 
Of glo\nng and growing light 



Thro' the livelong hours of the dar.; 
Kept itself warm in the heart of luv 

dreams. 
Ready to burst in a color'd flame : 
'lill at last, when the morning came 
In a cloud, it faded, and seems 
But an ashen-gray delight. 

4- 
What if with her sunny hair, 
And smile as sunny as cold, 
She meant to weave me a snare 
Of some coquettish deceit, 
Cleopatra-like as of old 
To entangle me when we met, 
To have her lion roll in a silken net, 
And fawn at a victor's feet. 

5- 
Ah, what shall I be at fifty 
Should Nature keep me alive. 
If I find the world so bitter 
When I am but twenty-five ? 
Yet, if she were not a'ch^at, 
If Maud were all that she seem'd. 
And her smile were all that I dream'd 
Then the world were not so bitter 
But a smile could make it sweet. 

6. 

What if tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me, 
What if that dandy despot, he, 
That jewell'd mass of millinery, 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bui 
Smelling of musk and of insolence, 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof, 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn, — 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd. 
And a moist Jiiirage in desert eyes. 
That so, when tiie rotten hustings 

shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 

7- 
For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch and 
ward, 



MAUD. 



225 



Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea too, myself from myself I guard, 
For often a man's own angry pride 
Ts cap and bells for a fool. 



Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood, 
For am I not, am I not, here alone 
So many a summer since she died, 
My mother, who was so gentle and 

good .-* 
Living alone in an empty house, 
Here half-hid in the gleaming wood, 
Where I hear the dead at midday 

moan, 
And the shrieking rush of the wainscot 

mouse, 
And my own sad name in corners 

cried. 
When the shiver of dancing leaves is 

thrown 
About its echoing chambers wide, 
Till a morbid hate and horror have 

grown 
Of a world in which I have hardly 

mixt, 
And a morbid eating lichen fixt 
On a heart half-turn'd to stone. 



O heart of stone, are you flesh, and 

caught 
By that you swore to withstand ? 
For what was it eise within me 

wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of 

love. 
That made my tongue so stammer and 

trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, 

her hand, 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove. 
And the sunlight broke from her lip ; 



I have play'd with her when a child : 
She remembers it now we meet. 
Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled 
By some coquettish deceit. 



Yet, if she were not a cheat. 
If Maud were all that she seem'd, 
And her smile had all that 1 dream'd. 
Then the world were not so bitter 
But a smile could make it sv/eet. 

VII. 



Did I hear it half in a doze 

Long since, I know not where "i 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 
When asleep in this arm-chair ? 



Men were drinking together. 
Drinking and talking of me ; 

" Well, if It prove a gi'rl, the boy 
Will have plenty; so let it be." 



Is it an echo of something 
Read with a boy's delight, 

Viziers noddiiig together 
In some Arabian night? 



Strange, that I hear two men, 
Somewhere talking of me; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be." 

VIII. 
She came to the village church, 
And sat by a pillar alone; 
An angel watching an urn 
Wept over her, carved in stone ; 
And once, but once, she lifted her 

eyes. 
And suddenly, sv^-eetlv, strangelv 

blush'd 
To find they were met by my own ; 
And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat 

stronger 
And thicker, until I heard no longer 
The snowy-banded, dilettante, 
Delicate-handed priest intone ; 
And thought, is it pride, and mused 

and sigh'd 
"No surely, now it cannot be pride." 



226 



MAUIJ. 



IX. 

I WAS vvalk'ng a mile, 
More than n, mile from the shore, 
The sun look'd out with a smiie 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor, 
And riding at se'. of day- 
Over the dark moor land, 
Rapidly riding far away, 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side, 
Something fiash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride. 
In a moment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
And back returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 



X. 



Sick, arr. T sick of a jealous dread? 
Was v'A. one of the two at her side 
This r.«w-made lord, whose splendor 

pl^^cks 
The ?;lavish hat from the villager's 

head } 
Whose old grandfather h?s lately died, 
Gone to a blacker pi'., to-, whom 
Grimy nakedness dr^igging his trucks 
And laying his Irarr.b in a poison'd 

gloom [mine 

Wrought, till he cr':;pt from a gutted 
Master of half a bfc?"vile shire, 
And left his coa- all Turn'd into gold 
To a graiidson, fi; st of his noble line, 
Rich in the grace all women desire, 
Strong in the power that all men 

adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower, 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 
New as his title, built last year, 
There amid perky larches and pine, 
And over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 

2. 

Wl'.rxt, has ho found my jewel out .' 
For one of the two that rode at her 
side 



Bound for the Hall, I am sure was 

he: 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a 

bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance 

be. ■ 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt. 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought } Vvhat is it he cannot buy } 
And therefore splenetic, personal, 

base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous 

cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched 

race, 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 

3- 
Last week came one to the county 

town, 
To preach our poor little army down. 
And play the game of the despot 

kings, 
Tho' the state has done it and thrice 

as well : 
This broad - brim'd hav»fker of holy 

things. 
Whose ear is stuff'd v,'ith his cotton, 

and rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his 

pence, 
This huckster put down war! can he 

tell 
Whether war be a cause or a conse- 



quence 



Put down the passions that make earth 

Hell ! 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride. 
Jealousy, down ! cut otf from the 

mind 
The bitter springs of anger and fear : 
Down too, down at your own fire- 
side, '" [ear, 
With the evil tongue and the evil 
For each is at war with mankind. 



I wish I could hear again 
The chivalrous battle-song 



MAUD. 



227 



That she warbled alone in her joy ! 

I might persuade myself then 

She would not do herself this great 

wrong 
To taKe a wanton, dissolute boy 
For a man and leader of men. 



Ah God, for a man with heart, head, 

hand, 
J.ike some of the simple great ones 

gone 
Forever and ever by, 
()ne still strong man in a blatant land, 
Whatever they call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, — one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 



And ah for a man to rise in me, 
'J'hat tne man I am may cease to be ! 

XI. 



LET the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 

Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweet 
Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 

1 shall have had my day. 



Let the sweet heavens endure, 
N'ot close and darken above me 

Before I am quite quite sure 
That there is one to love me ; 

Then let come what come may 

T . a life that has been so sad, 

I shall have had my day. 

XII. 

I. 

Birds in the high Plall-garden 
AVhen twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud,'l\Iaud, Maud, 
They were crying and calling. 

2. 
Where was Maud ? in our weed ; 
And I, who else, was with her, 



Gathering woodland lilies, 
Myraids blow together. 

3- 
Birds in our woods sang 

Ringing thro' the valleys. 
Maud is here, here, here 

In among the lilies. 

4- 
I kiss'd her slender hand. 

She took the kiss sedately 
Maud is not seventeen. 

But she is tall and stately. 



I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favor! 
O Maud were sure of Heaven 

If lowliness could save her. 



I know the way she went 
Home with her maiden posy, 

For her feet have touch'd the mea- 
dows 
And left the daisies rosy. 

7- 
Birds in the high Hall-garden 

Were crying and calling to her, 
Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, 

One is come to woo her. 



Look, a horse at the door. 

And little King Charles is snarling. 
Go back, my lord, across the moor. 

You are not her darling, 

XIIL 



Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I 

scorn, 
Is that a matter to make me fret ? 
That a calamity hard to be borne ? 
Well, he may live to hate me yet. 

Fool that I am to be vext with his 

pride ! 
I past him, I was crossing his lands : 
He stood on jhe path a little aside ; 
His face, as 1 grant, in spite of spite, 



2^8 



MAUB. 



Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and 

white, 
And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 
But his essence turn'd the live air sick, 
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Sunn'd itself on his breast and his 

hands. 



Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowship; 
But while I past he was humming an 

air, 
Stopt, and then with a riding whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy ooot, 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonized me from head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 



Why sits he here in his father's chair ? 
That old man never comes to his 

place : 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be 

seen ? 
For only once, in the village street. 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his 

face, 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him a 

cheat ; 
For then, ])erhaps, as a child of deceit, 
She might by a true descent be untrue; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet; 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other 

side ; 
Her mother has been a thing complete. 
However she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin : 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her mother, 
Ar.d heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race, 
All, a 1 upon the brother. 



Peace, angry spirit, and let him be ! 
Has not his sister smiled on me ? 



XIV. 



I. 



Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There she walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden gate ; 
A lion ramps at the top. 
He is claspt by a passion flower. 



Maud's own little oak-room 
(Which Maud, like a precious stone 
Set in the heart of the carven gloom, 
Lights with herself, when alone 
She sits by her music and books. 
And her brother lingers late 
With a roistering company) looks 
Upon Maud's own garden gate : 
And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as 

white 
As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 
On the hasp of the window, and my 

Delight 
Had a sudden desire, like a glorious 

ghost, to glide. 
Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, 

down to my side. 
There were but a step to be made 



The fancy flatter'd my mind, 

And again seem'd overbold ; 

Now I thought that she cared for me, 

Now I thought she was kind 

Only because she was cold. 



I heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Running down to my own dark wood; 
Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it 

swell'd 
Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; 
But I look'd, and round, all round the 

house I beheld 
The death-white curtain drawn ; 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath, 



MAUD. 



29 



Knew that the death-white curtain 

meant but sleep, 
Yet I shudder'd and thought like a fool 

of the sleep of death. / 

XV. 

So dark a mind within me dwells, 
And I make myself such evil cheer, 

That if I be dear to some one else, 
Then some one else may have much 
to fear ; 

But if I be clear to some one else, 
Then I should be to myself more 
dear. 

Shall I not take care of all that T think, 

Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink, 

If I be dear. 

If I be dear to some one else "i 

XVI. 



This lump of earth has left his estate 
The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 
And so that he find what he vvent to 

seek, 
And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and 

drown 
His heart in the gross mud- honey of 

town. 
He may stay for a year who has gone 

for a week ; 
But this is the day when I must speak. 
And I see my Oread coming down, 
O this is the day! 
O .beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way ; 
Think I may hold dominion sweet, 
Lord of the pulse that is lord of her 

breast. 
And dream of her beauty with tender 

dread, 
P'rom the delicate Arab arch of her 

feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as 

the crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, 
And she knows it not : O, if she knew 

it, 
To kncAV her beanty might half undo it. 



I know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from 

crime, 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 



What, if she were fasten'd to this fool 

lord, 
Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 
Should I love her so well if she 
Had given her word to a thing so low ? 
Shall I love her as well as if she 
Can break her word were it even for 

me ? 
I trust that it is not so. 



Catch not my breath, O clamorous 

heart, 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my 

eye, 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 

XYII. 

Go not, ha]:'py day, 

P>om the shining fields, 
Go not, happy day. 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips, 
Pass and blush the news 

O'er the blowing ships, 
Over blowing seas, 

Over seas at rest. 
Pass the happy news. 

Blush it thro' the West, 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree, 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the W^est is East, 



230 



MAUD. 



Blush it thro' the West, 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 

XVIII. 



I HAVE led her home, my love; my 
only friend. 

There is none like her, none, 

And never yet so warmly ran .my 
blood 

And sweetly, on and on 

Calming itself to the long-wish'd for 
end, 

Full to the banks, close on the prom- 
ised good. 



None like her, none 

Just now the dry-tongued laurel's pat- 
tering talk 

vSeem'd her light foot along the garden 
walk, 

And shook my heart to think she \ 
comes once more ; 

But even then I heard her close the 
door, 

The gates of HeaVen are closed, and 
she is gone. 



There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have 

deceased. 
O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 
In the long breeze that streams to thy 

delicious East, 
Sighing for Lebanon, 
Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here | 

increased, | 

Upon a pastoral slope as fair, ! 

And looking to the South, and fed j 

With honey'd rain and delicate air, 
A.nd haunted by the starry head | 

Of her whose gentle will has changed j 

my fate, | 

And made my life a perfumed altar- 1 

flame ; ; 



And over whom thy darkness must 

• have spread 
With such delight as theirs of old, thy 

great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, 

there 
Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from 

v.hom she came. 



Here will I lie, while these long 

branches sway. 
And you fair stars that crown a happy 

day 
Go in and out as if at merry play, 
Who am no more so all forlorn, 
As when it seem'd far better to be 

born 
To labor and the mattock-harden'd 

hand, 
Than nursed its ease and brought to 

understand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron 

skies, 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes, 
Coid fires, yet with power to burn and 

brand 
His nothingness into man. 



But now ohine on, and what care I, 
Who in this stormy gulf have found a 

pearl 
The countercharm of space and hollow 

sky, 
And do accept mv madness and would 

die 
To save from some slight shame one 

simple girl. 



Would die ; for sullen seeming Death 

may give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet 

to live. 
Let no one ask m.e how it came to 

pass ; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 



MA UD. 



231 



A livelier emerald twinkles in the 

grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 



Not die; but live a life of truest 
breath, 



Ar.d ve meanwhile far over moor and 
fell 
I Beat to the noiseless music of the 
! night ! 

lias our whole earth gone nearer to 

the g'ow 
Of your soft splendors that you look so 
' bright ? ■ 



And teach true life to fight with mortal | / have climb'd nearer out of lonely 

wrongs. I lieii. 

O, why should Love, like m3n in 1 Beat, happy stars, timing with things 

drinking-songs, | below,' 

Spice his fair banquet with the dust of 1 Beat with my heart more blest than 



death t 

Make answer, Maud my bliss. 
Maud made my Maud by that long 

lover's kiss, 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer 

this ? 
" The dusky strand of Death inwoven 

here 
With dear Love's tie, makes Love 

himself more dear." 



Is that enchanted moan only the 

swell 
Of the long waves that roll in vender 

bay ? 
And hark the clock within, the silver 

knell 
Of twelve sweet hours that past in 

bridal white. 
And died to live, long as my pulses 

play ; 
But now by this m.y love has closed 

her sight 
And given false death her hand; and 

stol'n away 
To dreamful wastes where footless 

fancies dwell 
Among the fragm.ents of the golden 

day. 
May nothing there her maiden grace 

affright ! 
Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy 

spell. 
My bride to be, my evermore delight, 
My own heart's heart and ownest own 

farewell ; 
It is but for a little space I go 



heart can tell, 
Blest, but for some dark undercurrent 

woe 
That seems to draw — but it shall not 

be so ; 
Let ail be well, be well. 

XIX. 



Her brother is coming back to-nigh' 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 



I My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth 
O when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark-davrning youth, 
Davken'd watching a m.other decline 
And that dead man at her heart and 

mine- 
For who was left to watch her but I ? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 



I ..rust that I did not talk 

To gentle Maud in our walk 

(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless 

things) 
But I trust that I did not talk, 
Not touch on her father's sin ; 
I am sure I did but speak 
Of my mother's faded cheek 
When it slowly grew so thin, 
That I felt she was slowly dying 



232 



MAUD. 



Vext with lawyers and harass'd with 

debt : 
For how often I caught her with eyes 

all wet, 
Shaking her head at her son and 

sighing 
A world of trouble within! 



A nd Maud too, Maud was moved 
To speak of the mother she loved 
As one scarce less forlorn, 
Dying abroad and it seems apart 
From him v/ho had ceased to share her 

heart. 
And ever mourning over the feud, 
The household Fury sprinkled with 

blood 
By which our houses are torn ; 
How strange was what she said, 
When only Maud and the brother 
Hung over her dying bed, — 
That Maud's dark father and mine 
Had bound us one to the other, 
Betrothed us over their wine 
On the day when Maud was born ; 
Seal'd her mine from her first sweet 

breath. 
Mine, mine by a right, from birth till 

death, 
Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 



But the true blood spilt had in it a 

heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a 

bond. 
That, if left uncancell'd, had been so 

sweet : 
And none of us thought of a something 

beyond, 
A desire that awoke in the heart of the 

child. 
As it vvcre a duty done to the tomb, ' 
To be friends for her sake, to be recon- 
ciled ; 
And I was cursing them and my 

doom, 
And letting a dangerous thought run 

wild 



While often abroad in the fragrant 

gloom 
Of foreign churches, — I see her there. 
Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 
To be friends, to be reconciled ! 



But then what a flint is he ! 
Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
I find whenever she touch'd on me 
This brother had laughVl her down. 
And at last, when each came home, 
He had darken'd into a frown. 
Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the 3'ears before ; 
And this was what had redden'd her 

cheek, 
When I bov/'d to her on the moor. 



Yet Maud, altho' not blind 

To the faults of his heart and mind, 

I see she cannot but love him. 

And says he is rough but kind. 

And wishes me to approve him. 

And tells me, when she lay 

Sick once, with a fear of worse. 

That he left his wine and horses and 

I^lay, 
Sat with her, read to her, night and 

day, 
And tended her like a nurse. 



Kind ? but the death-bed desire 
Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind ? yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this. 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud .'' that were not anii.ss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why, let it b{ 

so : 
For shall not Maud have her will .? 



For, Maud, so tender and true. 
As long as my life endures 
I feel I shall owe you a debt, 
That I never can hope to pay ; 



MAUD. 



^ZZ 



And if ever I should forget 

That I owe this debt to you 

And for your sweet sake to yours ; 

O then, what then shall I say ? — 

If ever I should forget, 

May God make me more wretched 

Than ever I have been yet ! 



So- now I have sworn to bury 

All this dead body of hate, 

I feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight, 

That 1 should grow light-head'id, I 
fear, 

Fantastically merry ; 

Ikit that her brother comes, like a 
blight 

C>n my fresh hope, to the Hall to- 
night. 

XX. 



Strange, that I felt so gay, 
Strange, that I tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy ; 
The Sultan, as we name him, 
She did not wish to blame him — 
But he vext her and perplext her 
With his worldly talk and folly : 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
From a little lazy lover 
Who but claims her as his due ? 
Or for chilling his caresses, 
By the coldness of her manners. 
Nay, the plainness of her dresses ? 
Now I know her but in two. 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather. 
Or the frock and gypsy bonnet 
Be the neater and completer ; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 



But to-morrow, if we live, 
Our ponderous squire will give 



A grand political dinner 
To half the squirelings near ; 
And Maud will wear her jewels. 
And the bird of prey will hover, 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 



A grand political dinner 

To the men of many acres, 

A gathering of the Tory, 

A dinner and then a dance 

For the maids and marriage-makers, 

And every eye but mine will glance 

At Maud'in all her glory. 



For I am not invited, 
But, with the Sultan's pardon, 
I am all as well delighted, 
For I know her own rose-garden, 
And mean to linger in it 
Till the dancing will be over ; 
And then, O then, come out to me 
For a minute, but for a minute, 
Come out to your own true lover, 
That your true lover may see 
Your glory also, and render 
All homage to his own darling. 
Queen Maud in all her splendor. 

XXI. 

Rivulet crossing my ground, 

And bringing me down from the Hall 

This garden-rose that I found. 

Forgetful of Maud and me, 

And lost in trouble and moving round 

Here at the hedd of a tinkling fall, 

And trying to pass to the sea; 

O Rivulet, born at the Hall, 

My Maud has sent it by thee 

( If I read her sweet will right) 

On a blushing mission to me, 

Saying in odor and color, "Ah, be 

Among the roses to-night." 

XXII. 
I. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 



234 



MAUD. 



Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted 
abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high. 
Beginning to faint in the light that she 
loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 
To faint in the light of the sun she 
loves. 
To faint in his licfht, and to die. 



All night have the roses heard 
The flute, violin, bassoon ; 

All night has the casement jessamine 
stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 

And a hush with the setting moon. 



I said to the lily, "There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone. 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes awav. 



I said to the rose, " The brief night 
goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are 
those. 
For one that will never be thine .' 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the 
rose, 
'■ Forever and ever^ mine." 

6. 

And the soul of the rose went into my 
blood. 
As the music clash'd in the hall ; 



j As long by the garden lake I stood, 
For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake 'to the meadow and on 
to the wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 



From the meadow your walks have 
left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, 
To the woody hollows in which we 
meet 
And the vallcvs of Paradise. 



The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the 
lake, 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for 
your take. 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake. 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 



Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 
girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done. 
In gloss of satin and giim.mer of pearls, 

Queen lily and rose in one ; 
Shine out, 'little head, sunning over 
with curls. 
To the flowers, and be their sun 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she 
is near; " 

And the white rose weeps, " She is 
late;" 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ; " 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 



MAUD. 



235 



II. 

She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her 
feet, 

\vA blossom in purple and red. 



XXIII. 
I. 

' The fault was mine, the fault was 

mine" — 
Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and 

'still, 
■ Plucking the harmless wild-flower on 

the hill .'— 
It is this guilty hand I — 
And there rises ever a passionate cry 
YxQvci underneath in the darkening 

land — 
What is it, that has been done ? 
O dawn of Eden bright over earth and 

sky, 
The fires of Hell brake out of thy 

rising sun, 
The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 
l~or she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken 

a word, 
Vv' hen her brother ran in his rage to 

the gate. 
He came with the babe-faced lord ; 
Heap'd on her terms of disgrace. 
And while she wept, and I strove to be 

cool, 
He fiercely gave me the lie. 
Till I with as fierce an anger spoke, 
And he struck me, madman, over the 

face, 
Struck me before the languid fool. 
Who was gaping and grinning by : 
Struck for himself an evil stroke : 
Vv''rought for his house an irredeemable 

woe ; 
For front to front in an hour we stood, 
And a million horrible bellowing 

echoes broke 



From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the 

w^ood, 
And thunder'd up into Heaven the 

Christless code, 
That must have life for a blow. 
Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to 

grow. 
Was it he lay there with a fading eye .' 
"The fault was mine," he whisper'd, 

" fly ! " 
Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith of one that I 

know ; 
And there rang on a sudden a pas- 
sionate cry, 
A cry for a brother's blood : 
It will ring in my heart and my cars, 

till I die', till I die. 



Is it gone } my pulses beat — 

What was it ? a lying trick of the 

brain 1 
Yet I thought I saw her stand, 
A shadow there at my feet. 
High over the shadowy land. 
It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a 

gentle rain. 
When they should burst and drown 

with deluging storms 
The feeble vassals of wine and anger 

and lust. 
The little hearts that know not how to 

forgive : 
Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold 

Thee just, 
Strike dead the whole weak race of 

venomous worms. 
That sting each other here in the dust ; 
We are not worthy to live. 

XXIV. 

I. 

See what a lovely shell, 
Sm.all and pure as a pearl, 
Lying close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 



22fi 



MAUD. 



What is it? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can, 
The beauty would be the same. 



The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill .-^ 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim warter-world .'' 



Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
Small, but a work divine, 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock. 
Here on the Breton strand ! 

5- 
Breton, not Briton ; here 
Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 
Of ancient fable and fear, — 
Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 
A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 
That never came from on high 
Nor never arose from below. 
But only moves with the moving e}e, 
Flying along the land and the main, — 
Why should it look like Maud? ' 
Am I to be overawed 
By what I cannot but know 
Is a juggle born of the brain ? 



Back from the Breton coast. 

Sick of a nameless fear, 

Back to the dark sea-line 

Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; 

An old song vexes my ear ; 

But that of Lamech is mine. 



For years, a measureless ill, 
For years, forever, to part, — 
But she, she would love me still; 
And as long, O God, as she 
Have a grain of love for me. 
So long, no doubt, no doubt. 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart. 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 



Strange, that the mind, when fraught 

With a passion so intense 

One would think that it well 

Might drovv-n all life in the eye, — 

That it should. by being so overwrought. 

Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 

For a shell, or a flower, little things 

Which else would have been past iDy ! 

And now I remember, I, 

When he lay dying there, 

I noticed one of his many rings 

(For he had many, poor worm) and 

thought 
It is his mother's hair. 



Who knows if he be dead? 

Whether I need have fled ? 

Am I guilty of blood ? 

However this may be. 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things 

good, 
While I am over the sea ! 
Let me and my passionate love go by, 
But speak to her all things holy and 

high, 
Whatever happen to me ! 
Me and my harmful love go bv; 
But come to her waking, find her 

asleep, 
Powers of the height, powers of the 

deep, 
And comfort her tho' I die. 

XXV. 

Courage, poor heart of stone ! 
I will not ask thee why 
Thou canst not understand 
That thou art left forever alone : 



MAUD. 



237 



Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 

Or if I ask thee why, 

Care not thou to reply : 

She is but dead, and the time is at 

hand 
When thou shalt more than die. 

XXVI. 



O THAT 'twere possible 
After long grief and pain 
To find the arms of my true love 
Round me once asain ! 



When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
Than anvthincr on earth. 



A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee ; 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might 

tell us 
What and where they be. 



It leads me forth at evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me, 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring; of the wheels. 



Half the night I waste in sighs. 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of earlv skies ; 
In a wakeful doze t sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
For the meeting of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 



'Tis a morning pure and sweet. 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet ; 
She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet ; 
She is singing in the meadow, 
And the rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 



Do I hear her sing as of old. 
My bird with the shining head. 
My own dove with the tender eye ? 
But there rings on a sudden a passion- 
ate cry, * 
There is some one dying or dead, 
And a sullen thunder is roll'd; 
For a tumult shakes the city, 
And I wake, my dream is fled ; 
In the shuddering dawn, behold, 
Without knowledge, without pity, 
By the curtains of my bed 
That abiding phantom cold. 



Get thee thence, nor come again, 
Mix not memory with doubt, 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about, 
'Tis the blot upon the brain 
That Ti^/Z/show itself without. 



Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of Jurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 

10. 

Thro' the hubbub of the market 

I steal, a wasted frame, 

It crosses here, it crosses there, 

Thro' all that crowd confused and loud, 



238 



MAUD, 



The shadow still the same ; 
And on thy heavy eyelids 
My anguish hangs like shame. 



Alas for her that met me, 

That heard me softly call, 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 



Would the happy spirit descend. 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street. 
As she looks among the blest, 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say "forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, "'take me sweet, 
T(? the regions of thy rest ? " 

n- 

But the broad light glares and beats, 

And the shadow flits and fieets 

And will not let me be ; 

And I loathe the squares and streets. 

And the faces that one meets. 

Hearts with no love for me : 

Always I long to creep 

Into some still cavern deep. 

There to v/eep, and weep, and v»'eep 

My whole soul out to thee. 

XXVII. 



Dead, long dead, 

Long dead ! 

And my heart is a handful of dust. 

And the wheels go over my head; 

And my bones are shaken with pain, 

For into a shallow grave they are 

thrust, 
Only a yard beneath the street. 
And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, 
The hoofs of the hoises beat. 
Beat into my scalp and my brain. 
With never an end to the stream of 

passing feet. 



Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, 
Clamor and rumble, and ringing and 

clatter, 
And here beneath it is all as bad, 
For I thought the dead had peace, but 

it is not so ; 
To have no peace in the grave, is that 

not sad .-' 
But up and down and to and fro. 
Ever about me the dead men go ; 
And then to hear a dead man chatter 
Is enough to drive one mad. 



Wretchedest age, since Time began, 

They cannot even bury a man ; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the days 

that are gone, 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was 

read ; 
It is that which makes us loud in the 

w^orld of the dead ; 
There is none that does his work, not 

one: 
A touch of their office might have suf- 
ficed, 
But the churchmen fain would kill their 

church. 
As the churches have kill'd their 

Christ. 



See, there is one of us sobbing. 

No limit to his distress; 

And another, a lord of all things, 
praying 

To his own great self, as I guess ; 

And another, a statesman there, be- 
traying 

His party-secret, fool, to the press; 

And yonder a vile physician, babbling . 

The case of his patient, — all for what .-' 

To tickle the masjgot born in an empty 
head, 

And wheedle a world that loves him 
not, 

For it is but a world of the dead. 

4. 
Nothing but idiot gabble ! 
For the prophecy given of old 



MAUD. 



239 



And then not understood, 

Has come to pass as foretold ; 

Not let any man think for the public 

good, 
But babble, merely for babble. 
For I never whisper'd a private affair 
Within the hearing of cat or mouse. 
No, not to myself in the closet alone, 
But I heard it shouted at once from the 

top of the house ; 
Everything came to be known : 
Who told hitn we were there ? 



Not that gray old wolf, for he came 

not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, 

where he used to lie ; 
He has gather'd the bones for his o'er- 

grown whelp to crack ; 
Crack them now for yourself, and 

howl, and die. 
6. 
Prophet, curse me the babbling lip. 
And curse m.e the British vermin, the 

rat; 
I know not whether he came in the 

Hanover ship, 
But I know that he lies and listens 

mute 
In an ancient mansion's crannies and 

holes : 
Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 
Except that now we poison our babes, 

poor souls ! 
It is all used up for that. 
->. 

Tell him now : she is standing here at 

my head ; 
Not beautiful now, not even kind ; 
He may take her now ; for she never 

speaks her mind, 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She is not of us, as I divine ; 
She comes from another stiller world 

of the dead. 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 

8. 
But I know where a gardeji grows, 
Fairer than aught in the world beside, 



All made up of the lily and rose 
That blow by night, when the season is 

good. 
To the sound of dancing music and 

flutes: 
It is only flowers, they had no fruits, 
And I almost fear they are not roses, 

but blood ; 
For the keeper was one, so full of 

pride, 
He linkt a dead man there to a spectral 

bride ; 
For he, if he had not been a Sultan of 

brutes. 
Would he have that hole in his side ? 



But what will the old man say ? 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a friend of mine one stormy 

day; 
Yet now I could even weep to think of 

it; 
For what will the old man say 
Vv hen he comes to the second corpse 

in the pit ? 



Friend, to be struck by the publi foe, 
Then to strike him and lay him low, 
That v.'ere a public merit, far. 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin ; 
But the red life spilt for a private 

blow — 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 



me, why have they not buried me 

deep enough ? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so 

rough, 
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper? 
Maybe still I am but half-dead ; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; 

1 will cry to the steps above my head. 
And somebody, surely, some kind heart 

will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 



240 



MAUD. 



XXVIII. 



My life has crept so long on a broken 

wing 
Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror 

and fear, 
That I come to be grateful at last for 

a little thing: 
My mood is changed, for it fell at a 

time of year 
\Vhen the face of the night is fair on 

the dewy downs, 
And the shining daffodil dies, and the 

Charioteer 
And starry Gemini hang like glorious 

crowns 
Over Orion's grave low down in the 

west. 
That like a silent lightning under the 

stars 
She seem'd to divide in a dream from 

a band of the blest, 
And spoke of a hope for the world in 

the coming wars — 
" And in that hope, dear soul, let 

trouble have rest, 
Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed 

to Mars 
As heglov*''d like a ruddy shield on the 

Lion's breast. 



And it v/as but a dream, yet it yielded 

a dear delight 
To have looked, tho' but in a dream, 

upon eyes so fair, 
That had been in a weary world my 

one thing bright; 
And it was but a dream, yet itlighten'd 

my despair 
When I thought that a war would arise 

in defence of the right, 
That an iron tyranny now should bend 

or cease. 
The glory of manhood stand on his 

ancient height, 
Nor Britain's one sole God be the mil- 
lionaire : 
No more shall commerce be all in all, 

and Peace 



Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid 
note. 

And watch her harvest ripen, her herd 
increase. 

Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a sloth- 
ful shore. 

And the cobweb woven across the can- 
non's throat 

Shall shake its threaded tears in the 
wind no more. 



And as months ran on and rumor of 

battle grew, 
" It is time, it is time, O passionate 

heart," said I 
(For I cleaved' to a cause that I felt to 

be pure and true), 
"It is time, O passionate heart and 

morbid eye, 
That old hysterical mock-disease should 

die." 
And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd 

my breath 
With a loyal people shouting a battle 

cry. 
Till I saw the dreary phantom arise 

and fly 
Far into the North, and battle, and seas 

of death. 



Let it go or sta)', so I wake to the 

higher aims 
Of a land that has lost for a little her 

lust of gold. 
And love of a peace that was full of 

wrongs and shames. 
Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be 

told ; 
And hail once more to the banner of 

battle unroll'd ! 
Tho' many a light shall darken, and 

many shall weep 
For those that are crush'd in the clash 

of jarring claims, 
Yet God's just wrath shall be v/reak'd 

on a giant liar ; 
And many a darkness into the light 

shall leap, 
And shine in the sudden making of 

splendid names, 



THE BROOK. 



241 



And noble thought be freer under the 

sun, 
And the heart of a people beat with 

one desire ; 
For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, 

is over and done, 
And now by the side of the Black and 

the Baltic deep, 
And deathful-gr inning mouths of the 

fortress flames 
The blood-red blossom of war with a 

heart of fire. 

5- 
Let it flame or fade, and the war roll 

down like a wind, 
We have proved we have hearts in a 

cause, v/e are noble still, 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, 

to the better mind ; 
It is better to fight for the good, than 

to rail at the ill ; 
I have felt with my native land, I am 

one v.'ith my kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God, and the 

doom assign'd. 



THE BROOK; 

AN IDYL. 

" Here, by this book, we parted ; I to 

the East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late : 
One whom the strong sons of the world 

despise ; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip 

and share. 
And mellow metres more than cent for 

cent; 
Nor could he understand how money 

breeds, 
Thought is a dead thing ; yet himself 

could make 
The thing that is not as the thing that 

is. 
O had he lived! In our school-books 

we say. 
Of those that held their heads above 

the crov,d, 

16 



They flourish'd then or then ; but life 

in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only 

touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 
When all the wood stands in a mist of 

green, 
And nothing perfect ; yet the book he 

loved. 
For which, in branding summers of 

Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neil- 

gherry air, 
I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, 
Prattling the primrose fancies of the 

boy, 
To me that loved him ; for ' O brook,' 

he says, 
' O babbling brook,' says Edmund in 

his rhyme, 
' Whence come you } ' and the brook, 

why not ? replies. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern. 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges. 

By twenty thorps, a little tov/n, 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come anclmen may go, 
But I go on forever. 

" Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite 
worn out. 

Travelling to Naples. There is Darn- 
ley bridge, 

It has 'more ivy; there the river; and 
there 

Stands Philip's farm where brook and 
river meet. 

I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles, 



242 



THE BROOK. 



With many a curve my banks I fret 
Bv many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
'I'o join the brinmiing river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

" But Philip chatter'd more than 
brook or bird ; 
Old Philip ; all about the fields you 
caught 
Hia weary daylong chirping, like the 
dry 
High-elbow' d grigs that leap in sum- 
mer grass. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there l lusty trout, 
And here and there -^^ gtayling, 

And here and there a foamv '"ike 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery vvatev':-?'?<',k 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all alon?, and flow 
To join the brimming v'ver, 

For men may come and n:en may 
go, ' 
But I go on forever. 

"O darling Katie Willows, li!? one 

child ! 
A maiden of our century, yfrj n ost 

meek ; 
A daughter of our meadows, \'<^.': not 

coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel 

wand ; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when 

the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit 

within. 

" Sweet Katie, once I did her a good 
turn, 
Her and her far-off cousin and be- 
trothed, 



James Willows, of one name and heart 

with her. 
For here I came, twenty years back, — 

the week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund; 

crost 
By that old bridge which, half in ruins 

then. 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the 

gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters marry — 

crost. 
Whistling a random bar of Bonny 

Doom. 
And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. 

The gate. 
Half-parted from a weak and scolding 

hinge. 
Stuck ; and he clamor'd from a case- 
ment, 'run ' 
To Kciiie somewhere in the walks 

below, 
* R-'.;i. Katie ! ' Katie never ran : she 

moved 
To meet me, wii ding under woodbine 

bowers, 
A little flutter 'd with her eyelids down, 
Fresh apple blossom, blushing for a 

boon. 

" What was it ? less of sentiment 

than sense 
HndKati:-; not illiterate ; neither one 
Who dabbling in the fount of fictive 

tears. 
And nursed by mealy-mouthed philan- 

ihro]:)ies. 
Divorce the Feeling from her mate the 

Deed, 
•' She toid m.e. She and James had 

quarrell'd. Vv hy ? 
What cause of quarrel "i None, she 

said, no cause ; 
J^i.mes had no cause : but when I prest 

the cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering 

jealousies 
Which anger'd her. Who anger'd 

James .-* I said. 
But "Katie snatch'd her eyes at once 

from mine, 



THE BROOK, 



243 



And sketching with her slender-pointed 

foot 
Some figure like a wizard's pentagram 
On garden gravel, let my query pass 
Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I 

ask'd 
If James were coming. * Coming every 

day,' 
She answer'd, 'ever longing to explain, 
But evermore her father came across 
With some long-winded tale, and broke 

him short ; 
And James departed vext with him and 

her' 
liow could I help her ? * Would I — 

was it wrong ? ' 
(Claspt hands and that petitionary 

grace 
Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere 

she spoke) 
' O would I take her father for one 

hour. 
For one half-hour, and let him talk to 

me ! ' 
And even while she spoke, I saw 

where James 
Made towards us, like a wader in the 

surf, 
Beyond the brook, waist-deep in mea- 
dow-sweet. 

" O Katie, what I suffer'd for your 

sake ! 
For in I went and call'd old Philip 

out 
To show the farm : full willingly he 

rose : 
He led me thro' the short sweet-smell- 
ing lanes 
Of his wheat suburb, babbling as he 

went. 
He praised his land, his horses, his 

machines ; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his 

hogs, his dogs ; * 
He praised his hens, his geese, his 

guinea-hens ; 
His pigeons, who in session on their 

roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own 

desertt : 



Then from the plaintive mother's teat, 

he took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, 

naming each. 
And naming those, his friends, for 

whom they were : 
Then crost the conmion into Darnley 

chase 
To show Sir Arthur's d er. In copse 

and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and 

tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech, 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and 

said: 
' That was the four-year-old I sold the 

squire.' 
And there he told a long, long-v/inded 

tale 
Of how the squire had seen the colt at 

grass, 
And how it was the thing his daughter 

wish'd. 
And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 
To learn the price, and what the price 

he ask'd. 
And how the bailiff swore that he was 

mad. 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter 

hung ; 
He gave them line : and five days after 

"that 
He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 
Who then and there had offer'd some- 
thing more, 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter 

hung ; 
He knew the man ; the colt would fetch 

its price; 
He gave them line : and how by 

chance at last 
(It might be May or April, he forgot, 
The last of April or the first May) 
He found the bailiff riding by the 

farm, 
And, talking from the point, he drew 

him in, 
And there he mellow'd all his heart 

with ale. 
Until they closed a bargain, hand in 

hand. 



!44 



THE BROOK. 



" Then, while I breathed in sight of 
haven, he, 

Poor fellow, could he help it? recom- 
menced. 

And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle. 

Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivv, 
Tallyho, 

Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the 
Jilt, 

Arbaces and Phenomenon, and the 
rest. 

Till, not to die a listener, I arose, 

And with me Philip, talking still ; and 
so 

He turn'd our foreheads from the fall- 
ing sun, 

And following our own shadows thrice 
as long 

As when the}- follow'd us from Philip's 
door, 

Arrived, and found the sun of sweet 
content 

Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things 
well. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sumbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows 

I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses ; 

I linger by my shingly bars ; 
I loiter round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
P'or men may come and men may 

But I go on forever. 

Yes, men may come and go ; and these 
are gone, 

All gone. My dearest brother, Ed- 
mund, sleeps, 

Not by the well-known stream and 
rustic spire, 



But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 
Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and 

he, _ 
Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of 

words 
Remains the lean P. W., on liis tomb: 
I scraped the lichen from it : Katie 

walks 
By the long wash of Australasian seas 
Far off, and holds her head to other 

stars, 
And breathes in converse seasons. 

All are gone." 

So Lawrence Alymer, seated on a 

stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his 

mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er 

the brook 
A tonsured head in middle age forlorn. 
Mused, and was mute. On a sudden 

a low breath 
Of tender air made tremble in the 

hedge 
The fragile bindweed-bells and briony 

rings; 
And he look'd up. There stood a 

maiden near, [stared 

Waiting to pass. In much amaze he 
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the -chestnut, when 

the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit 

within; 
Then, wondering, ask'd her, "Are you 

from the farm ? " 
" Yes," answer'd she. " Pray stay a 

little : pardon me ; 
What do they call you ? " " Katie." 

" That were strange. 
What surname ? " " Willows." ''■ No ! " 

" That is my name." 
" Indeed ! " and here he look'd so self- 

perplext. 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing 

blush'd, till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he 

wakes, 
V\' ho feels a glimmering strangeness 

in his dream. 



THE LETTERS. 



245 



Then looking at her ; '•' Too happy, 

fresh and fair, 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's 

best bloom, 
To be the ghost of one who bore your 

name 
About these meadows, twenty years 

ago." 

" Have you not heard? " said Katie, 
" we came back. 

•vYe bought the farm we tenanted be- 
fore. 

Am I so like her > so they said on 
board. 

Sir, if you knew her in her English 
days, 

•My mother, as it seems you did, the 
days 

That most she loves to talk of, come 
with me. 

^^v brother James is in the harvest- 
field : 

But she — you will be welcome — O, 
come in ! " 



THE LETTERS. 



Still on the tower "stood the vane, 

A black yew gloom'd the stagnant 
air, 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A band of pain across my brow : 
■■ Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall 
meet 

Before you hear my marriage vow." 



I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song 
That mock'd the wholesome human 
heart, 
And then we met in wrath and wrong. 

We met, but onlv meant to part. 
Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 
She faintly smiled, she hardly 
moved ; 



I saw with half-unconscious eye 
She wore the colors I approved. 



She took the little ivory chest. 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key, 
Then raised her head with lips com- 
• prest. 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could 
please ; 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 

4- 

She told me all her friends had said; 

I raged against the public liar ; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead, 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 
" No more of love ; your sex is known : 

I never will be twice deceived. 
Henceforth I trust the man alone, 

The woman cannot be believed. 



"Thro' slander, meanest spawn of 
Hell 
(And women's slander is the worst), 
And you, whom once I loved so well, 
Thro' you, my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat, and 
force, 
I shook her breast with vague 
alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 
We iiish'd into each other's arms. 



We parted : sweetly gleam'd the ?tars, 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue, 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars, 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile, 
So fresh they rose in shadow'd 
swells ; 
"Dark porch," I said, "and silent 
aisle 
There comes a sound of marriage 
bells." 



246 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON, 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



EuRY the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a 
mighty nation, 
PvTourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrovv' darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom we 

deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central 

roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for. 
Echo round his bones forevermore. 



Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 

As fits an universal woe, 

Let the long long procession go, 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it 

grow, 
And let the m.ournful martial music 

blow; 
The last great Englishman is low. 



Mourn, for to us he seems the lact, 

Remembering all his greatness in the 
Past. 

No more in soldier fashion will he 
greet 

With lifted hand the gazer in the 
■ street. 

O friends, our chief state-oracle is 
dead : 

Mourn for the man of long-enduring 
blood. 

The statesman-warrior, moderate, res- 
olute, 

Whole in himself, a common good. 

Mourn for the man of amplest in- 
fluence, 

Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 



Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
Great in council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time, 
Rich in saving common-sense, 
And, as the greatest only are. 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head which all men knew, 
O voice from which their omens all 

men drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fall'n at length that tower of strength . 
Which stood four-square to all the 

winds that blew ! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World victor's victor will be 

seen no more. 

S- 

All is over and done : 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thv son. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest forever 

Among the wise and the bold. * 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds ; 

Bright let it be with his blazon'd 
deeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be tolled : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be 
knoll'd ; 

And the sound of the sorrowing an- 
them roll'd 

Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 

And the volleying cannon thunder his .. j, 
loss ; 

He knew their voices of old. 

For many a time in many a clime 

His captain's-ear has heard them 
boom 

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom; 

When he with those deep voices 
wrought, [shame ; 

Guarding realms and kings from 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 247 



With those deep voices our dead cap- 
tain taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great 4ft«H>^'*' 
Which he has worn so pure of blame^'. 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attemper'd frame. 
civic muse, to such a name, 
To such a name for ages long. 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, ^^ 
,\nd ever-ringing avenues of song. 



X 



Who is he that cometh, like an hon- 

or'd guesr, 
With banner and with music, with 

.soldier and with priest, 
With a nation weeping, and breaking 

on my rest .'' 
Mighty seaman, this is he 
1' Was g'reat by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou 

famous nmn, 
The greatest sailor since our world 

began. | 

Now, to the roll of muffled drums, I 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
// For this is he 

W.is great by land as thou by sea; 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free; 



O give him welcome, this is he, 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 
And worthy to be laid by thee; 
P'or this is England's greatest son, 
He that gain'd a hundred fights, 
Nor ever lost an English gun; 
This is he that far away 
Against the mvriads of Assave 
Clash'd with his fiery few and won 
And undcrneuh another sun, 
Warring 0.1 a lat.r day, 
Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works,- the vast designs 
Of his labor'd rampart-lines, 
Where he greatly stood at bay. 
Whence he issued forth anew', 
And ever great and greater grew, 
Beating from the wasted vines 



Back to France hf r banded swarms, 
Back to France with countless blows, 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Past the Pyrenean pines, 
FoUow'd up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 
Roll of cannon arid rlash of arms, 
And England pouring on her foes. 
Such a war had such a close. 
Again their ravening eagle rose 
In anger, whecl'd on Europe-shadow- 
ing wings, 
And barking for the thrones of kings; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron 

crown 
On that loud Sabbaih shook the spoi'.cr 

down ; 
A day of onsets of despair ! 
Dash'd on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foam'd them 

selves away ; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; 
Thro' the !ong-torniented air 
Heaven flash d a gydden uibilant lav, 
And down we swept and charged and 

overtinew. 
So great a soldier tansh?, us there, 
What long eriduring hc^.aiti could do 
In that world's-earthquakv, Waterloo! 
M'ghty seaman, tender "x\d. true, 
A I d pure as he from te-iii'; of craven 

guile, 
O s? 'ior Oi' the si]ver-coa:?ced isle, 
O s,ieM;er of the Baltic and the Nile, 
If a-.'^h.' of things th;it |-,ere bef-^' 
Tou:o ■ spirit among thir.gs d.i'.Ine, 
If lo -i f country move thee i.-e-.e at 

Be g'a<i, because his bones are ^?id ov 

>'':ine ! 
And thro' the centuries let a people's. 

voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voic-.. 
The jjroof ana echo of all human 

fame, 
A people's voice, v,:'=.n they rejoice 
At civic revel and po: o and game, 
Atts-st their great commander's claJm 
With honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his r.ame. 



248 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF V/ELLINGTON, 



A people's voice ! we are a people 

vet. 
Tho'" all men else their nobler dreams 

forget 
Confused by brainless mobs and law- 
less Powers; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and 

roughly set 
1 lis Saxon in blown seas and storming 

showers, 
Vv e have a voice, with which to pay 

the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and 

regret 
To those great men who fought, and 

kept it ours. , 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute 

control ; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, 

the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England 

whole, 
And save the one true seed of freedom 

sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient 

throne, 
That sober freedom out of which there 

springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate 

kings ; [kind 

For, saving that, ye help to save man- 
Till public wrong be crumbled into 

dust, 
And drill the raw world for the march 

of mine. 
Till crowds at length be sane and 

crowns be just. 
But wink no more in slothful over- 
trust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts, 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward 

wall ;' 
His voke is silent in your council- 
hall 
Forever ; and whatever tempests lower 
Forever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man 

who spoke ; 



Who never sold the truth to serve the 

hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for 

power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor 

flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high 

and low 
Whose life was work, whose language 

rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one 

rebuke ['ight ; 

All great self-seekers trampling on the 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 



Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 
He, on whom from both her open 

hands 
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, 
And affluent P^ortune emptied all her 

horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great, 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island- 
story. 
The path of duty was the way to glory: 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes, 
He shall find the stubborn thistle bur- 
sting 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island - 

St or)'. 
The path of duty was* the way to glory : 
He, that ever following her commands, 
On with toil of heart and knees and 

hands. 
Thro' the long gorge to the far light 
has won 



THE DAISY. 



249 



His path upward, and prevail'd, 

Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 
scaled 

Are close upon the shining table- 
lands 

To which our God Himself is moon 
and sun. 

Such was he : his work is done. 

But while the races of mankind en- 
dure, 

Let his great example stand 

Colossal, seen of every land. 

And keep the soldier firm, the states- 
man pure ; 

Till in all lands and thro' all human 
story 

The path of duty be the way to glory: 

And let the land whose hearths he 
saved from shame 

For many and many an age proclaim 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

And when the long-illumined cities 
flame. 

Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to 
him, 

Eternal honor to his name. 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 
By some yet unmoulded tongue 
Far on in summers that Ave shall not 

see : 
Peace, it is a day of pain 
For one about whose patriarchal knee 
Late the little children clung : 
O peace, it is a day of pain 
For one, upon whose hand and heart 

and brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe 

hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
Whom we see not we revere. 
W'e revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain. 
And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane : 



We revere, and while we hear 

The tides of Music's golden sea 

Setting toward eternity. 

Uplifted high in heart and hope are 

i ^^'e> 

Until we doubt not that for one so 

j true 

I There must be other nobler work to 

; do 

i Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
And Victor he must ever be. 

i For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 

' And break the shore, and evermore 

I Make and break, and work their will ; 
Tho' world on world in mvriad myriads 

j roll 

i Round us, each with different powers, 

i And other forms of life than ours, 

j What know we greater than the soul ? 

I On God and Godlike men we build 
our trust. 

j Hush, the Dead March wails in the 

I people's ears : 

The dark crowd moves, and there are 

sobs and tears : 
The black earth yawns ; the mortal 

disappears ; 
A.shes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
He is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 

I Being here, and we believe him 

i Something far advanced in state, 
Aixd that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can weave 

him 
But speak no more of his renown, 
Lay your earthly fancies down. 
And in the vast cathedral leave him. 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 
1852. 



THE DAISY. 

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH. 

O Love, what hours were thine and 

mine. 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 



^5° 



THE DAISY. 



What Roman strength Turbla show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain load ; 

How like a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

To meet the sim and sunny waters. 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 

What slender campanili grew 
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 
Where, here and there, on sandy 
beaches 
A milky-beird amaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove. 
Yet present in his natal grove, 

Now watching high on mountain 
cornice. 
And steering, now, from a purple cove, 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to him. 

Nor knew we well Vi'hat jDleased us 

most, 
Not the dipt palm of which they 

boast; 
But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast, 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green : 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain head. 

We loved that hall, tho' white and 

cold, 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 
A princely people's awful princes, 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours ; 



What drives about the fresh Cascine, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright vignettes, and each complete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember w!:at a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting. 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires, 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires, 

The height, the space, the gloom, 
the glory ! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues, 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly-f^ush'd, how phantom-fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 
A thousand shadov>'y-penciird val- 
leys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how w'e came at last 
To Como ; shower and storm and blast 
Had blown the lake beyond his 
limit. 
And all was flooded; and how* we past 

From Como, when the light was gray, 
And in mv head, for half the day, 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way, 

Like ballad-burthen music, kept. 
As on the Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept; 

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake, 



THE DAISY. 



251 



The moonlight touchhig o'er a ter- 
race 
One tall Agave above the lake. 

What more ? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Splugen drew, 
But ere we reach'd the highest sum- 
mit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told oi England then to me, 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea ; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold : 

Yet here to-night in this dark city, 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry. 
This nurseling of another sky 

Stilf in the little book you lent me. 
And where you tenderly laid it by : 

And I forgot the clouded P'orth, 
The gloom that saddens Heaven and 
Earth 
The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain. 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, 
Perchance, to dream you still beside 
me, 
My fancy ficd to the South again. 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 

Come, when no graver cares employ, 
God-father, come and see your boy: 

Your presence will be sun in winter. 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few, 
Who give the Fiend himself his due. 
Should eighty thousand college 
councils 
Thunder " Anathema," friend, at you 

Should all our churchmen foam in 

spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 



Yet one lay-hearth would give you 
welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of 
Wight; 

Where, far from noise and smoke of 

town 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a carelessorder'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You '11 have no scandal while 5-ou dine, 
But honest tali< and wholesome wine. 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine : 

For groves of pine on either hand. 
To break the blast of winter, stand ; 
And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand; 

Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep. 
And on thro' zones of light and 
shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep. 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin ; 
Dispute the claims, 'arrange the 
chances ; 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood; 
Till you should turn to dearer mat- 
ters. 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 

How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor; 

How gain in life, as life advances, 
Valor and charity more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongv-wet ; 
But then the wreath of March has 
blossonVd, 
Crocus, anemone, violet. 

Or later, pav one visit here. 
For those are few we hold as dear; 
I Nor pav but one, but come for many, 
I Many and many a happy year. 
1 January, 1854. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



WILL. 



O WELL for him whose will is strong 1 
He suffers, but he will not suffer long ; 
He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong : 
For him nor moves the loud world's 

random mock, 
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves con- 
found, 
\Vho seems a promontory of rock, 
That, compass'd round with turbulent 
sound, 
middle 
shock, 
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd. 

2. 

But ill for him who, bettering not with 

time, 
Corrupts the strength of heaven-de- 
scended Will, 
And ever weaker grows thro' acted 

crime, 
Or seeming-genial venial fault, 
Recurring and suggesting still ' 
He seems as one whose footsteps 
Toiling in immeasurable san'cl, 
And o'er a weary, sultry land, 
Far beneath a blazing vault, 
Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous 

hill, 
The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 



THE CIL\RGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 



Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward. 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
" Charge for the guns ! " he said 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



"Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
No'f tho' the soldier knew 



Some one had blunder'd 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die, 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd a*id thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at wilh shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 



Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air, 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke, 
Right thro' the line they broke 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke ,, 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 
Not the six hundred. 

5- 
Cannon to right of them 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that liad fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 



When can their glor}' fade ? 
O the wild charge they made I 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made J 
Honor the Light Brigade, 
Noble six hundred ! 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



^hl 



IDYLS OF THE KING, 



" Flos Re£i 



DEDICATIO: 



These to His Memory — since he held 
them dear, 

Perchance as finding there uncon- 
sciously 

Some image of himself — I dedicate, 

I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 

These Idyls, 

And indeed He seems to me 

Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 

" Who reverenced his conscience as his 
king ; 

Whose giory was, redressing human 
wrong ; 

Who spake no slander, no, nor Usten'd 
to it; 

Who loved one only and who clave to 
her — " 

Her — over all whose realms to their 
last isle, 

Commingled with the gloom of im- 
minent war. 

The shadov/ of His loss moved like 
eclipse, 

Darkening the world. AVe have lost 
him : he is gone : 

We know him now: all narrow jeal- 
ousies 

Are silent : and we see him as he 
moved, 

Hov/ modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, 
Vv'ise, 

With what sublime repression of him- 
self. 

And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 

Not swaying to this faction or to that ; 

Not making his high place the lawless 
perch 

Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage- 
ground 

For pleasure : but thro' all this tract 
of years 



Arthurus." 
Joseph of Exeter. 
A 

Wearing tne white flower of a blame- 
less life, 

Before a thousand peering littlenesses, 

In that fierce light which beats upon a 
throne. 

And blackens every blot; for where is 
he. 

Who dares foreshadow for an only son 

A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than 
his ? 

Or how should England dreaming of 
his sons 

Hope more for these than some in- 
heritance 
j Of such a. life, a heart, a mind as thine, 
! Thou noble Father of her Kings to be;. 

Laborious for her people and her 
poor — [day — 

Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler 

Far-sighted summoner of \Var and 
Waste 

To fruitful strifes and rivalries of 
peace — 

Sweet nature gilded by the gracious 
gleam 

Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 

Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince 
indeed, 

Beyond all titles, and a household 
name, 

Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the 
• Good. 

Break not, O woman's-heart, but still 

endure ; 
Break not, for thou art Royal, but 

endure, 
Remembering all the beauty of that star 
Which shone so close beside Thee, 

that ye made 
One light togetherj but has past and 

left 
The Crown of lonely splendor. ^. 



254 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



May all love, 
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy sons encompass 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy daughters cherish 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy people comfort 

Thee, 
Till God's love set Thee at his side 

asfain ! 



ENID. 

The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's 

court, 
A tributary prince of Devon, one 
Of that great order of the Table 

Round, 
Had wedded Enid, Yniol's only child. 
And loved her, as he loved the light of 

Heaven. 
And as the light of Heaven varies, 

now 
At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night 
With moon and trembling stars, so 

loved Geriant 
To make her beauty vary day by day. 
In crimsons and in purples and in gems. 
And Enid, but to please her husband's 

eye. 
Who first had found and loved her in 

a state 
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him 
In some fresh splendor ; and the Queen 

herself, 
Grateful to Prince Geraint for service 

done, 
Loved her, and often with her own 

white hands 
Arrav'd and deck'd her, as the love- 
liest. 
Next after her own self, in all the 

court. 
And Enid loved the Qneen, and with 

true heart 
Adored her, as the stateliest and the 

best 
And loveliest of all women upon earth. 



And seeing them so tender and so 

close, 
Long in their common love rejoiced 

Geraint, 
But when a' rumor rose about the 

Queen, 
Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 
Though yet there lived no proof, nor 

yet was heard 
The world's loud whisper breaking 

into storm. 
Not less Geraint believed it ; and there 

fell 
A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, 
Thro' that great tenderness to Guine- 
vere, 
Had suffered or should suffer any taint 
In nature : wherefore going to the 

king. 
He made this prete.\t, that his prince- 
dom lay 
Close on the borders of a territory, 
Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff 

knights. 
Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 
Of justice, and whatever loathes a law ; 
And therefore, till the king himself 

should please 
To cleanse this common sewer of all 

his realm, 
He craved a fair permission to depart, 
And there defend his marches; and 

the king 
Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, 
Allowing it, the prince and Enid rode, 
And fifty knights rode v.'ith them, to the 

shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land ; 
Where, thinking, that if ever yet was 

wife 
True to her lord, mine shall be so to 

me, 
lie compassed her with sweet observ- 
ances 
And worship, never leaving her, and 

grew 
Forgetful of his promise to the king. 
Forgetful of the falcon and thi. hunt, 
Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, 
Forgetful of his glory and his name, 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



255 



Forgetful of his princedom and its 
cares. 

And this forgetfuhiess was hateful to 
her, 

And by and by the people, when they 
met, 

In twos and threes, or fuller com- 
panies, 

Began to scoff and jeer and babble of 
him 

As of a prince whose manhood was all 
gone, 

And molten down in mere uxorious- 
ness. 

And this she gather'dfrom the people's 
eyes : [head. 

This too the women who attired her 

To please her, dwelling on his bound- 
less love. 

Told Enid, and they saddened her the 
more : 

And day' by day she thought to tell 
Geraint, 

But could not out of bashful delicacy; 

While he that watch'd her sadden, 
was the more 

Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 

At last, it chanced on a summer 

morn 
(They sleeping each by other) the new 

sun 
Beat through the blindless casement 

of the room, 
And heated the strong warrior in his 

dreams; 
Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside. 
And l:)ared the knotted column of his 

throat, 
llie massive square of his heroic 

breast. 
And arms on which the standing 

muscle sloped, 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little 

stone. 
Running too vehemently to break 

upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the 

couch, 
Admiring him, and thought within her- 
self, 



Was ever man so grandly made as 

he? 
Then, like a shadow, past the people's 

talk 
And accusation of uxoriousness 
Across her mind, and bowing over 

him. 
Low to her own heart piteously, she 

said : 

" O noble breast and all-puissant 

arms. 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that 

men 
Reproach you, saying all your force is 

gone "i 
I a7n the cause because I dare not 

speak 
And tell him what I think and what 

they say. 
And yet I hate that he should linger 

here ; 
I cannot love my lord and not his 

name. 
Far liever had I gird his harness on 

him, [by. 

And ride with him to battle and stand 
And watch his mightful hand striking 

great blows 
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the 

world. 
Far better were I laid in the dark 

earth. 
Not hearing any more his noble voice, 
Not to be folded more in these dear 

arms, 
And darken' d from the high light in 

his eyes. 
Than that my lord through me should 

suffer shame. 
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, 
And see my dear lord wounded in the 

strife, 
Or may be pierced to death before 

mine eyes. 
And yet not dare to tell him what I 

think, 
And how men slur him, saying all his 

force 
Is melted into mere effeminacy "i 
O me, I fear that I am no true wife." 



256 



IDYLS OF THE JCING, 



Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, 
And the strong passion in her made 

her weep 
True tears upon his broad and naked 

breast, 
And these awoke him, and by great 

mischance 
He heard but fragments of her later 

words, 
And that she fear'd she was not a true 

wife. 
And then he thought, " In spite of all 

my care, 
For all my pains, poor man, for all my 

pains, 
She is not faithful to me, and I see her 
Weeping for some gay knight in 
. Arthur's hall." 
K Then tho' he loved and reverenced her 
■j ! too much 

To dream she could be of foul act, 
Right thro' his manful breast darted 

the pang 
That makes a man in the sweet face of 

her 
I I Whom he loves most, lonely and 
I miserable. 

' At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of 

bed. 
And shook his drowsy squire awake 

and cried, 
'• My charger and her palfrey," then to 

her, 
" I will ride forth into the wilder- 
ness ; 
For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to 

v/in, 
I have not fall'n so low as some would 

wish. 
And you, put on your worst and 

meanest dress 
■And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, 

amazed, 
" If Enid errs, let Enid learn her 

fault." 
But he, " I charge you, ask not, but 

obey." 
Then she bethought her of a faded 

silk, 
A faded mantle and a faded veil. 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, 



Wherein she kept them folded rev- 
erently 

With sprigs of summer laid between 
the folds, 

She took them, and array'd herself 
therein. 

Remembering when first he came on 
her 

Drest in that dress, and how he loved 
her in it, 

And all her foolish fears about the 
dress, 

And all his journey to her, as him- 
self 

Had told her, and their coming to the 
court. 

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide be- 
fore 
Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. 
There on a dav, he sitting high in 

hall, 
Before him came a forester of Dean, 
Wet from the v.oods, with notice of a 

hart 
Taller than all his fellows, milky- 
white. 
First seen that day : these things he 

told the king. 
Then the good king gave order to let 

blow 
His horns for hunting on the morrow 

morn. 
And when the Queen petition'd for his 

leave 
To see the hunt, allow'd it easily.. 
So with the morning all the court were 

gone. 
But Guinevere lay late into the morn, 
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of 

her Love 
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the 

hunt ; [her, 

But rose at last, a single maiden with 
Took horse, and forded Usk, and 

gain'd the wood ; 
There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd 
Waiting to hear the hounds; but 

heard instead • 
A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince 

Geraint, 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



257 



Late also, wearing neither hunting 

dress 
Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted 

brand, 
Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow 

ford 
Behind them, and so gallop'd up the 

knoll. 
A purple scarf, at either end whereof 
There swung an apple of the purest 

gold, 
Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd 

up [fly 

To join them, glancing like a dragon- 
In summer suit and silks of holiday. 
Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and 

she, 
Sweetly and stately, and with all grace 
Of womanhood and queenhood, an- 

swer'd hfm : 
" Late, late. Sir Prince," she said, 

"later than we I " 
"Yea, noble Queen," he answer'd, 

"and so late 
That I but come like you to see the 

hunt. 
Not join it." " Therefore wait with 

me," she said ; • 
" For on this little knoll, if anywhere, 
There is good chance that we shall 

hear the hounds ; 
Here often they break covert at our 

feet." 

And while they listen'd for the dis- 
tant hunt. 

And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 

King Arthur's hound of deepest 
mouth, there rode 

Full slov.-ly by a knight, lady, and 
dwarf ; 

Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and 
the knight 

Had visor up, and show'd a youthful 
face. 

Imperious, and of haughtiest linea- 
ments. 

And Guinevere, not mindful of his 
face 

In the king's hall, desired his name, 
and sent 

17 



Her maiden to demand it of the 

dwarf ; 
Who being vicious, old, and irritable. 
And doubling all his master's vice of 

pride. 
Made answer sharply that she should 

not know. 
" Then will I ask it of himself," she 

said. 
" Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," 

cried the dwarf; 
" Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of 

him ; " 
And when she put her horse toward 

the knight, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she 

re turn 'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; at which 

Geraint 
Exclaiming, " Surely I will learn the 

name," 
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd 

it of him. 
Who answer'd as before ; and v.hen 

the Prince 
Had put his horse in motion toward 

the knight, 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut 

his cheek. 
The Prince's blood spirted upon the 

scarf, 
Dyeing it ; and his quick, instinctive 

hand 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him; 
But he, from his exceeding manfulness 
And pure nobility of temperament, 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, 

refrain'd 
From ev'n a word, and so returning, 

said: 

" I will avenge this insult, noble 
Queen, 

Done in your maiden's person to your- 
self? 

And I will track this vermin to their 
earths : 

For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not 
doubt 

To find, at some place I shall come at, 
arms 



258 



IDYLS OF THE KIXG. 



On loan, or else for pledge ; and, be 
ing found, 

Then will I fight him, and will break 
his pride, 

And on the third day will again be 
here 

So that I be not fall'n in fight. Fare- 
well." 

" Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd 

the stately Queen. 
" Be prosperous in this journey, as in 

all ; 
And may you light on all things that j 

you love, 
And live to wed with her whom first 

you love : 
But ere you wed with any, bring your 

bride. 
And f, were she the daughter of a 

king, 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the 

hedge, 
Will clothe her for her bridals like the 

sun." 

And Prince Geraint, now thinking 

that he heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far 

horn, 
A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode, 
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy 

glade 
And valley, with fixt eye, following the 

three. 
At last they issued from the v.'orld of 

wood. 
And climb'd upon a fair and even 

ridge, I 

And showed themselves against the 

sky, and sank. j 

And thither came Geraint, and under- ; 

neath | 

Beheld the long street of a little tov»-n 
In a long valley, on one side of which, ! 
White from the mason's hand, a for- j 

tress rose : ! 

And on one side a castle in decay, [ 

Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry 

ravine : " I 



And out of town and valley came a 

noise 
As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 
Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for the 

night. 

And onward to the fortress rode the 

three, 
And enter'd, and were lost behind the 

walls. 
" So," thought Geraint, ''I havetrack'd 

him to his earth." 
And down the long street, riding 

wearih^ 
Found every hostel full, and every 

where 
Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot 

hiss 
And bustling whistle of the youth who 

scour'd 
His master's armor : and of such a one 
He ask'd, " What means the tumult in 

the town ? " 
Who told him, scouring still, '"' The 

sparrc\v-hawk ! " 
Then riding close behind an ancient 

churl. 
Who, smitten by the dusty sloping 

beam, [corn. 

Went sweating underneath a sack of 
Ask'd yet once more what meant the 

hubbub here .•' 
Who answer'd grufifly, " Ugh ! the 

sparrows-hawk." 
Then, riding further past an armorer's. 
Who, • with back turn'd, and bow'd 

above his work, 
Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, 
He put the selfsame query, but the man 
Not turning round, nor looking at him, 

said ; 
" Friend, he tliat labors for the spar- 
row-hawk 
Has little time for idle questioners." 
Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden 

spleen : 
" A thousand pips eat up vour sparrow- 
hawk ! 
Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings 

peck him dead ! 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



259 



Ye think the rustic cackle of your 

bourg 
Tlie murmur of the world ! What is it 

to me ? 
O wretched set of s'.3arrows, one and 

all, 
'\Vho pipe of nothing but of sparrow- 

hawlcs ! 
vSpeak, if you be not like the rest, 

hawk-mad, 
^Yhcre can I get me harborage for the 

night ? 
And arms, arms, arms to fight mv 

enemy ? Speak ! " 
At this the armorer turning all amazed 
And seeing one so gay in purple silks, 
Came forward with the helmet yet in 

hand 
And answer'd, '* Pardon me, O stranger 

knight ; 
We hold a' tourney here to-morrow 

morn, [work. 

And there is scantly time for half the 
Arms? truth I I know not: all are 

wanted here. 
Harborage ? truth, good truth, I know 

not, save, 
It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the 

bridge 
Yonder." He poke and fell to work 

again. 

Then rode Geraint. a little spleenful 
yet. 

Across the bridge that spann'd the dry 
ravine. 

There musing sat the hoary-headed 
Earl, 

(His dress a suit of fray'd magnifi- 
cence, 

Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and 
said : 

" Whither, fair son ? " to whom Ge- 
raint replied, 

" O friend, I seek a harborage for the 
night." 

Then Yniol, " Enter therefore and par- 
take 

The slender entertainment of a house 

Once rich, now poor, but ever open- 
door'd." 



"Thnnks, venerable friend," replied 
Geramt : 

" So that you do not serve me sparrow- 
hawks 

For supper, I will enter, I will eat 

With all the passion of a twelve hours' 
fast." 

Then sigh'd and sm'led the hoary- 
heacled Earl, 

And answer'd. " Graver cause than 
yours is mine 

To curse this hedgerow thief, the spar- 
row-hawk : 

But in, go in ; for, save yourself desire 
it. 

We will not touch upon him ev'n in 
jest." 

Then rode Geraint into the castle 

court. 
His charger trampling many a prickly 

star 
Of sprouted thistle on the broken 

stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was ruin- 
ous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed 

with fern ; 
And here had fall'n a great part of a 

tower, 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles -from 

the cliff. 
And like a crag was gay with wilding 

flowers : 
And high above a piece of turret stair, 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, 

wound 
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy- 
stems 
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred 

arms, 
And suck'd the joining of the stones, 

and look'd 
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a 

grove. 

And while he waited in the castle 

court. 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, 

rang 
Clear thro' the op<;n casement of the 

Hall. 



26o 



IDYLS OF THE KIA'G. 



Singing : and as the sweet voice of a 

bird, 
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, 
Moves him to think what kind of bird 

it is 
That sings so delicately clear, and 

make 
Conjecture of the plumage and the 

form ; 
So the sweet voice of Enid moved 

Geraint ; 
And made him like a man abroad at 

morn 
When first the liquid note beloved of 

men 
Comes flying over many a windy v;ave 
To Britain, and in April suddenly 
Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with 

green and red, 
And he suspends his converse with 

a friend. 
Or it may be the labor of his hands, 
To think or say, "there is the nightin- 
gale ; " 
So fared it with Geraint, who thought 

and said, 
" Here, by God's grace, is the one 

voice for me." 

It chanced the song that Enid sang 
was one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid 
sang : 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and 

lower the proud ; 
Turn thy -wild wheel thro' sunshine, 

storm, and cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love 

nor hate. 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with 

smile or frown ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or 

down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 

great. 

" Smile ai-.d we smile, the lords of 

many lands : 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our 

own hands ; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 



" Turn, turn thy wheel above the 

staring crowd ; 
Tliy wheel and thou are shadows in the 

cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee v.-e neither love 

nor hate." 

" Hark, by the bird's song you may 
learn the nest," 

Said Yniol ; '" Enter quickly." Enter- 
ing then. 

Right o'er a mount of nev.-ly-fallen 
stones, 

The dusty - rafter'd many-cobweb'd 
Hall, 

He found an ancient dame in dim bro- 
cade ; 

And near her, like a blossom vermeil- 
white, 

That lightly breaks a faded flower- 
sheath, 

Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, 

Her daughter. In a moment thought 
Geraint, 

" Here by God's rood is the one maid 
for me." 

But none spake word except the hoarv 
Earl : 

" Enid, the good knight's horse stands 
in the court ; 

Take him to stall, and give him corn, 
and then 

Go to the town and buy us flesh and 
wine : 

And we will make us merry as we may, 

Our hoard is lictle, but our hearts are 
great." 

He spake : the Prince, as Enid past 

him fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol 

caught 
His purple scarf, and held, and said 

" Forbear I 
I\est ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O 

my Son, 
Endures not that her guest should 

serve himself." 
And reverencing the custom of the 

house 
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. 



IDYLS OF I'lJE KING. 



So Enid took his charger to the : 

stall ; I 

And after went her way across the ' 

bridge, ' j 

And reach'd the town, and while the ! 

Prince and Earl 
Vet spoke together, came again with 

one, I 

A youth, that following with a costrel j 

bore I 

The means of goodly welcome, flesh | 

and wine. j 

And Enid brought sweet cakes to , 

make tliem cheer, I 

And in her veil enfolded, manchftt i 

bread. 
And then, because their hall must also 

serve 
For kitchen, boii'd the flesh, and 

spread the board, 
And stood behjnd, and waited on the 

three. ' [able, 

And seeing her so sweet and service- 
(jeraint had longing in him evermore 
To stoop and kiss the tender little 

thumb. 
That crost the trencher as she laid it 

down : 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
For now the wine made summer in his 

veins, 
Let his eye rove in following, or rest 
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work. 
Now here, now there, about the dusky 

hall : 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl. 

" Fair Flost and Earl, I pray your 

courtesy ; 
This sparrov\'-hawk, what is he, tell me 

of him. 
His name .^ but no, good faith, I will 

not have it : 
For if he be the knight whom late I 

saw 
Ride into that new fortress by your 

town, 
White from the mason's hand, then 

have I sworn 
From his own lips to have it — I am 

Geraint 



Of Devon — for this morning when the 

Queen 
Sent her own maiden to demand the 

name. 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen 

thing. 
Struck at her with his whip, and she 

return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then I 

svi'ore 
That I v.ould track this caitiff to his 

hold, 
And fight and break his pride, and have 

it of him. [fmd 

And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to 
Arms in your town, where all the men 

are mad ; 
They take the rustic murmur of their 

bourg 
For the great wave that echoes round 

the world ; 
They vrould not hear me speak : but if 

you know 
Where I can light on arms, or if your- 
self 
Should have them, tell me, seeing I have 

sworn 
That I will break his pride and learn 

his name, 
Avenging this great insult done the 

Queen." 

Then cried Earl Yniol : " Art thou 

he indeed, 
Geraint, a name far-sounded among 

men . 
For noble deeds ? and truly I, u'hen 

first 
I saw you moving by me on the bridge, 
Felt you were somewhat, yea and by 

your state 
And presence might have guess'd you 

one of those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 
Nor speak I now from foolish flattery ; 
For this dear child hath often heard 

me praise 
Your feats of arms, and often v/hen I 

paused 

h ask' " 

hear; 



262 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 
To noble hearts who see but acts of 
wrong : 

never yet had woman such a pair 
Of suitors as this maiden ; first Li- 
mo urs, 

A creature wholly given to brawls and 

wine, 
Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be he 

dead 

1 know not, but he passed to the wild 

land. 

The second was your foe, the sparrow- 
hawk, 

My curse, my nephew, — I will not let 
his name 

Slip from my lips if I can help it, — he, 

When I that knew him fierce and tur- 
bulent 

Refused her to him, then his pride 
awoke ; 

And since the proud man often is the 
mean. 

He sowed a slander in the common ear, 

Atfirming that his father left him gold, 

And in my charge, which was not ren- 
der 'd to him ; 

Bribed with large promises the men 
who served 

About my person, the more easily 

Because my means were somewhat 
broken into 

Thro' open doors and hospitality ; 

Raised my own town against me in the 
night 

Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my 
house ; 

From mine own earldom foully ousted 
me ; 

Built that new fort to overawe my 
friends, 

For truly there are those who love me 
yet; 

And keeps me in this ruinous castle 
here, 

Where doubtless he would put me 
soon to death. 

But that his pride too much despises 
me: 

And I mvself sometimes despise my- 
self 5 ' 



I For I have let men be, and have their 

i way ; 

I And much too gentle, have not used 

I my power : 

I Nor know I whether I be very base 

j Or very manful, whether very wise 
Or very foolish ; only this I know, 
That whatsoever evil happen to me, 
I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, 
But can endure it all most patiently." 

" Well said, true heart," replied 

Geraint, " but arms : 
That if, as I suppose, your nephew 

fights 
In next day's tourney I may break his 

pride." 

And Yniol answer'd : " Arms, in- 
deed, but old 

And rusty, old and rusty. Prince Ge- 
raint, 

Are mine, and therefore at your ask- 
ing, yours. 

But in this tournament can no man 
tilt, 

Except the lady he loves best be there. 

Two forks are fixt into the meadow 
ground. 

And over these is laid a silver wand, 

And over that is placed the sparrow- 
hawk, 

The prize of beauty for the fairest 
there. 

And this, what knight soever be in 
field 

Lays claim to for the lady at his side, 

And tilts with my good nephew there- 
upon. 

Who being apt at arms and big of 
bone 

Has ever won it for the lady with him. 

And toppling over all antagonism 

Has earn'd himself the name of spar- 
row-hawk. 

But you, that have no ladv, cannot 
fight." 

To whom Geraint with eyes all 
bright replied. 
Leaning a little tov/ard him, " Your 
leave ! 



IDYLS OF THE KI.\'G. 



263 



Let Pi£ lay lance in rest, O noble host, 
For this dear child, because I never 

saw, 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our 

time, 
Nor can see elsewhere, anvthing so 

fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet remain 
Untarnish'd as before ; but if I live, 
So aid me Heaven when at mine utter- 
most, 
As I will make her trulv my true 
wife." 

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's 
heart 

Danced in his bosom, seeing better 
days. 

And looking round he saw not Enid 
there 

(Who hearing litr own name had slipt 
away), 

But that old dame, to whom full ten- 
derly 

And fondling all her hand in his he 
said, 

*' Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, 

And best by her that bore her under- 
stood. 

Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to 
rest 

Tell her, and prove her heart toward 
the Prince." 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, 

and she 
With frequent smile and nod depart- 
ing found, 
Half disarray 'd as to her rest, the girl ; 
Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, 

and then 
On either shining shoulder laid a 

hand, 
And kept her off and gazed upon her 

face, 
And told her all their converse in the 

hall, 
Proving her heart; but never light and 

shade 
Coursed one another more on open 

ground 



Beneath a troubled heaven, than red 

and pale 
Across the face of Enid hearing her ; 
Whilst slovvlv falling as a scale that 

falls. 
When weight is added only g.ain by 

grain, 
Sanlv her sweet head upon her gentle 

breast ; 
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a 

word. 
Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of 

it; 
So moving without answer to her rest 
She found no rest, and ever fail'd to 

draw 
The quiet night into her blood, but 

lay 
Contemplating her own unworthiness ; 
And when the pale and bloodless east 

began 
To quicken to the sun, arose, and 

raised 
Her mother too, and hand in hand 

they moved 
Down to the meadow where the jousts 

were held. 
And waited there for Yniol and Ge- 

raint. 

And thither came the twain, and 

when Geraint 
Beheld her first in field, awaiting him, 
He felt, were she the prize of bodily 

force. 
Himself beyond the rest pushing could 

move 
The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted 

arms 
Were on his princely person, but thro' 

these 
Princelike his bearing shone ; and er- 
rant knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the 

town 
Flow'd in, and settling circled all the 

lists. 
And there they fixt the forks into the 

ground. 
And over these they placed a silver 

wand. 



264 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



And over that a golden sparrow-hawk. 


Made answer, groaning, " Edyrn, son 


Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet 


of Nudd ! 


blown, 


Ashamed am 1 that I should tell it 


Spake to the lady with him and pro- 


thee. 


claim'd, 


My pride is broken : men have seen 


"Advance and take as "fairest of the 


my fall." 


fair, 


"Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd," replied 


For I these two years past have <von 


Geraint, 


it for thee, 


" These two things shalt thou do. or 


The prize of beauty." Loudly spake 


else thou diesr. 


the Prince, 


First, thou thyself, thy lady and thy 


"Forbear: there is a worthier," and 


dwarf, 


the knight 


Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and be- 


With some surprise and thrice as much 


ing there. 


disdain 


Crave pardon for that insult done the 


Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all 


Queen, 


his face 


And shalt abide her judgment on it; 


Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at 


next. 


Yule, 


Thou shalt give back their earldom to 


So burnt he was with passion, crying 


thy kin. 


out. 


These two things shalt thou do, or 


" Do battle for it then," no nwre ; and 


thou shalt die." 


thrice 


And Edyrn answer'd, "These things 


They clash'd together, and thrice they 


will I do. 


brake their spears. 


For I have never yet been overthrown, 


Then each, dishorsed and drawing. 


And thou hast overthrown me, and my 


lash'd at each 


pride 


So often, and with such blows, that all 


Is broken down, for Enid sees my 


the crowd 


fall!" 


Wonder "d, and now and then from dis- 


And rising up, he rode to Arthur's 


tant walls 


court. 


There came a clapping as of phantom 


And there the queen forgave him 


hands. 


easily. 


So twice they fought, and twice they 


And being young, he changed himself, 


breathed, and still 


and grew 


The dew of their great labor, and the 


To hate the sin that seem'd so like 


blood 


his own, 


Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd 


Of Modred, Arthur's nephew, and fell 


their force. 


at last 


But cither's force was match'd till 


In the great battle fighting for the 


YnioFs cry. 


king. 


" Remember that great insult done the 




Queen," 


But when the third day from the 


Increased Geraint's, who heaved his 


hunting-morn 


blade aloft, 


Made a low splendor in the world, and 


And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit 


wings 


the bone, 


r»Ioved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 


And fell'd him, and set foot upon his 


With her fair head in the dim-y.eilow 


breast. 


light, 


And said, "Thy name?" To whom 


Among the dancing shadows of the 


the fallen man 


birds, 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



265 



Woke and bethought her of her prom- 
ise given 

No later than last eve to Prince Ge- 
raint — 

So bent he seem'd on going the third 
day, 

He woiald not leave her, till her prom- 
ise given — 

To ride with him this morning to the 
court. 

And there be made known to the 
stately Queen, 

And there be wedded with all cere- 
mony, [dj^ess, 

At this she cast her eyes upon her 

And thought it r.ever yet had look'd 
so mean. 

For as a leaf in mid-November is 

To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 

The dress that n»w she look'd on to 
the dress [raint. 

She look'd on ere the coming of Ge- 

And still she look'd, and still the ter- 
ror grew 

Of that "strange bright and dreadful 
thing, a court, 

All staring at her in her faded silk: 

And softly to her own sweet heart she 
said : 

"This noble Prince who won our 

earldom back. 
So splendid in his acts and his attire. 
Sweet heaven ! how much I shall dis- 
credit him ! 
Would he could tarry v.ith us here 

awhile ! 
But being so beholden to the Prince 
It were but little grace in any of us. 
Bent as he seem'd on going this third 

day, 
To seek a second favor at his hands. 
Yet if he could but tarry a day or 

two, 
Myself would work eye dim, and finger 

lame. 
Far liefer than so much discredit 

him." 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a 
costly gift • 



Of her good mother, given her on the 

night 
Before her birthday, three sad yeai.'s 

That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd 

their house, 
And scatter'^ all they had to all the 

winds ; 
For while the mother show'd it, and 

the tv>'o 
Were turning and admiring it, the 

work 
To l)oth appear'd so costly, rose a 

cry 
That Edyrn's men were on them, and 

they fled 
With little save the jewels they had 

on. 
Which being sold and sold had bought 

them bread : 
And Edyrn's men had caught them in 

their flight, 
And placed them in this ruin; and she 

wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her an- 
cient home ; 
Then let her fancy flit across the past, 
And roam the goodly places that she 

knew; 
And last bethought her how she used 

to watch. 
Near that old home, a pool of golden 

carp ; 
,And one was patch'd and blurr'd and 

lustreless 
Among his burnish'd brethren of the 

pool; 
And half asleep she made comparison 
Of that and these to her own faded 

self 
And the gay court, and fell asleep 

again ; 
And dreamt herself was such a faded 

form 
Among her burnish'd sisters of the 

pool ; 
But this was in the garden of a king ; 
And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she 

knew 
That all was bright; that all about 

were birds 



266 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work; 
Tha,t all'the turf was rich in plots that 

look'd 
Each like a garnet or a turkis in it ; 
And lords and ladies of the high 

court went , 

In silver tissue talking things of state ; 
And children of the king in cloth of 

gold 
Glanced at the doors or gambol'd 

down the walks ; 
And while she thought " they will not 

see nie," came 
A stately queen whose name was Gui- 
nevere, 
And all the children in their cloth of 

gold 
Ran to her, crying, "If we have fish 

at all 
Let them be gold : and charge the 

gardeners now 
To pick the faded creature from the 

pool, 
And cast it on the mixen that it die." 
And therewithal one came and seized 

on her, 
And Enid started waking, with her 

heart 
A.11 overshadow'd by the foolish dream. 
And lo ! it was her mother grasping her 
To get her well awake ; and in her 

hand 
A suit of bright apparel, which she laid 
Flat on the couch, and spoke exult- 

ingly : 

" See here, my child, how fresh the 

colors look, 
How fast they hold, like colors of a 

shell 
That keeps the Vv'car and polish of the 

wave. 
Why not.'' it never yet was worn, I 

trow ; 
Look on it, child, and tell m.e if you 

know it." 

And Enid look'd, but all confused at 
first. 
Could scarce divide it from her foolish 
dream, 



Then suddenly she knew it and re- 
joiced, 
And answer'd, " Vea, I know it ; your 

good gift. 
So sadly lost on that unhappy night ; 
Your own good gift!" '' Yea, surely," 

said the dame, 
" And gladly given again this happy 

morn. 
For when the jousts were ended yester- 
day, 
Went Yniol thro' the town, and every- 
where 
He found the sack and plunder of our 

house 
All scatter'd thro' the houses of the 

town : 
And gave command that all which 

once was ours, 
Should now be ours again : and yester- 

eve. 
While you were talking sweetly with 

your Prince, 
Came one with this and laid it in my 

hand. 
For love or fear, or seeking favor of 

us, 
Because we have our earldom back 

again. 
And yester-eve I would not tell vou 

of it, 
But kept it for a sweet surprise at 

morn. 
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise ? 
For I myself unwillingly have worn" 
My faded suit, as you, my child, have 

yours, 
And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly 

house. 
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous 

fare. 
And page, and maid, and squire, and 

seneschal. 
And pastime, both of hawk and hound, 

and all 
That appertains to noble maintenance. 
Yea, and he brought me to a goodly 

house; 
But since our fortune slipt from sun 

to shade. 



IDYLS OF THE KiyO. 



267 



And all thro' that young traitor, cruel 

need 
Constrain'd us, but a better time has 

come ; 
So clothe yourself in this, that better 

fits 
Our mended fortunes and a Prince's 

bride : 
For tho' you won the prize of fairest 

fair, 
And tho I heard him call you fairest 

fair, 
Let never maiden think, however fair, 
She is not fairer in new clothes than 

old. 
A.nd should some great court-lady say, 

the Prince 
Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the 

hedge. 
And like a madman brought her to the 

court, 
Then were you shamed, and worse, 

might shame the Prince 
To whom we are beholden; but I 

know, [best. 

When my dear child is set forth at her 
That neither court nor country, tho' 

they sought 
Thro' all the provinces like tliose of 

old 
That lighted on Queen Esther, has her 

match." 

Here ceased the kindly m.other out 

of breath ; 
And Enid listen'd brightening as she 

lay; 
Then, as the white and glittering-star 

of morn 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by and 

. H 

Slips into golden cloud, the maiden 

rose, 
And left her maiden couch, and robed 

herself, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand 

and eye, 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous 

gown : 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, 

and said, 



■ She never yet had seen her half so 
I fair; 

I And call'd her like that maiden in the 
I tale, 

i Whom Gwydion made by glamor out 
I of flowers, 

, And sweeter than the bride of Cassi- 
I vclaun, [first 

I Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar 
I Invaded Britain, " but we beat him 
i back, 

j As this great Prince invaded us, and 
! we, 

Not beat him back, but welcomed him 

with joy. 
And I can scarcely ride with you to 

court. 
For old am I, and rough the ways and 

wild ; 
But Ynibl goes, and I full oft shall 

dream 
I see my princess as I see her now, 
Cloth'd with my gift, and gay among 
the gay." 

But whilst ihe women thus rejoiced, 

I Geraint 

I Woke where he slept in the high hall, 
and call'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
Of that good mother making Enid gay 
In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately 

queen, 
Fie answer'd, " Earl, entreat her by my 

love, 
Albeit I give no reason but my wish. 
That she ride with me in her faded 
silk." 

! Yniol v.'ith that hard message went ; it 

I fell, 

j Like flaws in summer laying lusty 

i corn : 

I For Enid, all abash'd, she knew not 

I why, 

j Dared not to glance at her good moth- 

I er's face, 

j But silently, in all obedience, 
Her mother silent too, nor helping her, 

I Laid from her limbs the costly-broid- 

i er'd gift, 



268 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



And robed them in her ancient suit 

again, 
And so descended. Never man re: 

joiced 
More than Geraint to greet her thus 

attired : 
And glancing all at once as keenly at 

her, 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil. 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid 

fall, 
But rested with her sweet face satis- 
fied; 
Then seeing cloud upon the mother's 

brow. 
Her by both hands he caught, and 

sweetly said : 

" O my new mother, be not wroth or 

grieved 
At your new son, for my petition to 

her. 
When late 1 left Caerleon, our great 

Queen. 
In wordsMvhose echo lasts, they were 

so sweet. 
Made promise that whatever bride I 

brought. 
Herself would clothe her like the sun 

in Heaven. 
Thereafter, wheii,! reach'd this ruin'd 

hold. 
Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
I vow'd tliat could I gain her, our kind 

Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your 

Enid burst 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise 

thought perhaps, 
That service done so graciously would 

bind 
The two together ; for I wish the two 
To love each other : how should Enid 

find ( 

A nobler friend ? Another thought I 

had; 
I came among you here so suddenly, 
That tho' her 'gentle presence at the 

lists 
Might well have served for proof that I 
was loved, 



I doubted whether filial tenderness, 

Or easy nature, did not let itself 

Be moulded by your wishes for her 

weal ; 
Or whether some false sense in her 
own self 
I Of my contrasting brightness, overbore 
j Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall; 
I And such a sense might make her long 
I for court 

j And all its dangerous glories: and I 
I thought, 

I That could I someway prove such 
I force in her 

I Link'd v»'ith such love for me, that at a 
I word 

I (No reason given her) she could cast 
aside 
A splendor dear to women, new to her 
And therefore dearer; or if not so 

new. 
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the 

power 
Of intermitted custom : then I felt 
That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and 

flows, 
Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I 

do rest, 
A prophet certain of my prophecy, 
I That never shadow of mistrust can 
j cross 

j Between us. Grant me pardon for my 
thoughts : 
And for my strange petition I will 
j make 

j Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day. 
When your fair chifd shall wear your 

costly gift 
Beside your own warm hearth, with, on 

her knees, 
Who knows ? another gift of the high 

God. 
Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to 
lisp you thanks." 

He spoke the mother smiled, but 

half in tears, 
Then brought a mantle down and 

wrapt her in it, 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they 

rode away. 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



269 



Now thrice that morning Guinevere 

had climb'd 
The giant tower, from whose high 

crest, they say, 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails flying on the yellow 

sea ; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 
Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale 

of Usk, 
By the fiat meadow, till she saw tliem 

come 
And then descending met them at the 

gates, 
Embraced her with all welcome as a 

friend, 
And did her honor as the Prince's 

bride. 
And clothed her for her bridals like 

the sun ; 
And all that week was old Caerleon 

gay, 

For by the hands of Dubric, the high 

saint. 
They twain were wedded with all 

ceremony. 

And this was on the last year's 
Whitsuntide. 

But Enid ever Icept the faded silk. 

Remembering liow first he came on 
her, 

Drest in that dress, and how he loved 
her in it. 

And all the foolish fears about the 
dress, 

And all his journey toward her, as him- 
self 

Had told her, and their coming to the 
court. 

And now this morning when he said 
to her, 

" Put on your worst and meanest 
dress," she found 

And took it, and array 'd herself there- 
in. 

O purblind race of miserable men. 
How many among us at this very hour 
Do forge a life-long trouble for our- 
selves, 



By taking true for false, or false for 

true; 
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this 

world 
Groping, how many, until we pass and 

reach 
That other, where we see as we are 

seen ! 

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing 

forth 
That morning, when they both had 

got to horse. 
Perhaps because he loved her passion- 
ately, 
And felt that tempest brooding round 

his heart. 
Which, if he spoke at all, would break 

perforce 
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 
*' Not at my side ! I charge you ride 

bef(>re. 
Ever a good way on before ; and this 
I charge you, on your duty as a wife, 
Whatever happens, not to speak to 

me, 
No, not a word ! " and Enid v;as 

aghast : 
And forth they rode, but scarce three 

paces on, 
When crying out, " Effeminate as I 

am, 
I will not fight my way with gilded 

arms, 
All shall be iron ; " he loosed a mighty 

purse, 
Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward 

the squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of hom.e 
Was all the marble threshold flashing, 

strown 
With gold and scatter'd coinage, and 

the squire 
Chafing his shoulder ; then he cried 

again, 
" To the wilds ! " and Enid leading 

dov/n the tracks 
Thro' which-he bade her lead him on, 

they past 
The marches, and by bandit-haunted 

holds. 



270 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Gray swamps and pools, ^Yaste places 

'of the hern, 
And vv-ilderncsses, perilous paths, they 

rode : 
Round was their pace at first, but 

slackcn'd soon : 
A stranger meeting them had surely 

thought, 
They rode so slowly and theylook'dso 

pale, [wrong. 

That each had suffer'd some exceeding 
For he was ever saying to himself, 
" O I that wasted time to tend upon 

her, 
To compass her with sweet obser- 
vances. 
To dress her beautifully and keep her 

true "— 
And there he broke the sentence in 

his heart 
Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 
May break it, when his passion masters 

him 
And she was ever praying the sweet 

heavens 
To save her dear lord whole from any 

wound. 
And ever in her mind she cast about 
*For that unnoticed failing in herself, 
Which made him look so cloudy and 

so cold ; 
Till the great plover's human whistle 

amazed 
Her heart, and glancing round the 

waste she fear'd 
In every wavering brake an ambuscade. 
Then thought again " If there be such 

in me, 
I might amend it by the grace of 

heaven, 
If he would only speak and tell me 

of it." 

But when the fourth part of the day 

was gone, 
Then Enid was aware of three tall 

knights 
On horseback, wholly arnt'd, behind a 

rock • 

In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs 

all: 



And heard ont crving to his fellow, 

" Look, 
Here comes a laggard hanging dov/n 

his head, 
Who seems no bolder than a beaten 

hound ; 
Come, we will slay him and will have 

his horse 
And armor, and his damsel shall be 

ours." 

Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, 
and said : 
" I will go back a little to my lord. 
And I will tell him all their caitiff talk ; 
P'or, be he wroth even to slaying me. 
Far liever by his dear hand had I die. 
Than that my lord should suffer loss 
or shame." 

Then she went back some paces of 

return. 
Met his full frown timidly firm, and 

said : 
" ]\Iy lord, I saw three bandits by the 

rock 
Waiting to fall on you, and heard them 

boast 
That they would slay you, and possess 

your horse 
And armor, and your damsel should be 

theirs." 

He made a wrathful answer. " Did 
I wish 

Your warning or your silence .^ one 
command 

I laid upon you, not to speak to me. 

And thus you keep it ! Well then, 
. look — for now, 

Whether vou wish me victorv or de- 
feat, 

Long for my life, or hunger for my 
death, 

Vourself shall see my vigor is not 
lost." 

Then Enid waited pale and sorrow- 
ful, 
And down upon him bare the bandit 
three. 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



271 



And at the midmost charging, Prince 

Geraint 
Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his 

breast 
And out beyond; and then against his 

brace 
Of comrades, each of whom had broken 

on him 
A lance that splinter'd like an icicle, 
Swuiig from his brand, a windy buffet 

out 
Once, twice, to right, to left, and 

stunn'd the twain 
Or slew them, and dismounting like a 

man 
That skins the wild beast after slaying 

him, 
Stript from the three dead wolves of 

woman born 
The three gay suits of armor which 

they wore, 
And let the bodies lie, but bound the 

suits 
Of armor on their horses, each on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the 

three 
Together, and said to her, ''drive them 

on 
Before you ; " and she drove them 

thro' the waste. 

He follow'd nearer: ruth began to 

work 
Against his anger in him, while he 

w^atch'd 
The being he loved best in all the 

world. 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on : he fain had spoken 

to her, [wrath 

And loosed in words of sudden fire the 
And smoulder'd wroiTg^that burnt him 

all within ; 
But evermore it seem'd an easier thing 
At once without remorse to strike her 

dead, 
Than to cry "Halt," and to her ov/n 

bright face 
Accuse her of the least immodesty: 
And thus tongue-tied, it made him 

v»Toth the more 



That she could speak whom his own 

car had heard 
Call herself false: and suffering thus 

he made 
Minutes an age : but in scarce longer 

time 
Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again, 
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, be- 
hold 
In the first shallow shade of a deep 

wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted 

oaks, 
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly 

arm'd. 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than 

her lord. 
And shook her pulses, crying, " Look, 

a prize ! 
Three horses and three goodly suits of 

arms. 
And all in charge of whom ? a girl : 

set on." 
" Nay," said the second, " yonder 

comes a knight." 
The third, " A craven ! how he hangs 

his head. 
The giant answer'd merrily, '•' Yea, but 

one ? 
Wait here, and when he passes fall 

upon him." 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and 

said, 
" I will abide the coming of my lord, 
And I will tell him all their villany. 
]Mv lord is weary with the fight before. 
And they will fall upon him unawares. 
I needs must disobey him for his good ; 
How should I dare obey him to his 

harm ? 
Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill 

me for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine." 

And she abode his coming, and said 

to him 
With timid firmness, " Have I leave to 

spegk } " 
He said, " you take it, speaking," and 

she spoke. 



272 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



" There lurk three villains yonder in 

the wood, 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, and 

one 
Is larger limb'd than you are, and they 

say 
That they will fall upon you while you 

pass." 

To which he flung a wrathful answer 

back : 
"And if there were an hundred in the 

wood, 
And every man were larger-limb'd 

than I, 
And all at once should sally out upon me, 
I swear it would not ruffle me so much 
As you that not obey me. Stand 

aside, 
And if I fall, cleave to the better man." 

And Enid stood aside to wait the 

event, 
Not dare to watch the combat, only 

breathe 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a 

breath. 
And he, she dreaded most, bare down 

upon him, 
Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; 

but Geraint's, 
A little in the late encounter strain'd, 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet 

home. 
And then brake short, and down his 

enemy roll'd 
And there lay still : as he that tells the 

tale. 
Saw once a great piece of a promon- 
tory, 
That had a sapling growing on it, slip 
From the long shore-cliff's windy walls 

to the beach, 
And there lie still, and yet the sapling 

grew : 
So lay the man transfixf:. His craven 

pair 
Of comrades, making slowlier at the 

Prince, • 

When now they saw their bulwark 

fallen, stood : 



On v«rhom the victor, to confound them 

more, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for 

as one, 
That listens near a torrent mountain- 
brook, 
All thro' the crash of the near cataract 

hears 
The drumming thunder of the huger 

fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to 

hear 
His voice in battle, and be kindled by 

it, 
And foemen scared, like that false pair 

who turn'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an 

innocent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, 

pick'd the lance 
That pleased him best, and drew from 

those dead wolves 
Their three gay suits of armor, each 

from each. 
And bound them on their horses, each 

on each. 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 
Together, and said to her, " Drive 

them on 
Before you," and she drove them thro' 

the wood. 

He follow'd nearer still; the pain 

she had 
To keep them in the wild ways of the 

wood. 
Two sets of three laden with jingling 

arms, 
Together, served a little to disedge 
The sharpness of that pain about her 

heart ; 
And they themselves, like creatures 

gently born 
But into bad hands fall'n, and now so 

long 
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light 

ears, and felt 
Her low firm voice and tender govern- 
I ment. 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



273 



So thro' the green gloom of the 

wood they past, 
And issuing under open heavens be- 
held 
A little town with towers, upon a rock, 
And close beneath, a meadow gemlike 

chased 
In the brown wild, and mowers mowing 

in it : 
And down a rocky pathway from the 

place 
There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in 

his hand 
Bare victual for the mowers : and 

Geraint 
Had ruth again on Enid looking pale : 
Then, moving downward to the meadow 

ground. 
He, when the fair-hair'd youth came 

by him, said, 
"Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so 

faint." 
"Yea, willingly," replied the youth; 

"and you. 
My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse. 
And only meet for mowers ; " then set 

down 
His basket, and dismounting on the 

sward 
They let the horses graze, and ate 

themselves. 
And Enid took a little delicately. 
Less having stomach for it than desire 
To close with her lord's pleasure ; but 

Geraint 
Ate all the mowers' victual unawares. 
And when he found all empty, was 

amazed : 
And " Boy," said he, " I have eaten all, 

but take 
A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose 

the best." 
He, reddening in extremity of delight, 
" ^ly lord, you overpay me fifty fold." 
" You will be all the wealthier," cried 

the Prince. 
" I take it as free gift, then," said the 

boy, 
" Not guerdon ; for myself can easily. 
While your good damsel rests, return, 

and fetch 

18 



Fresh victual for these mowers of our 

Earl; 
For these are his, and all the field is 

his, 
And I myself am his ; and I will tell 

him 
How great a man you are ; he loves to 

know 
When men of mark are in his territory : 
And he will have you to his palace 

here, 
i\nd serve you costlier than with 

mowers' fare." 

Then said Geraint, " I wish no bet- 
ter fare : 

I never ate with angrier appetite 

Than when I left your mowers dinner- 
less. 

And into no Earl's palace will I go. 

I know, God knows, too much of pal- 
aces ! 

And if he want me, let him come to 
me. 

But hire us some fair chamber for the 
night, 

And stalling for the horses, and re- 
turn 

With victual for these men, and let us 
know/' 

" Yea, my kind lord," said the glad 
youth, and went, 

Held his head high, and thought him- 
self a knight, 

And up the rocky pathway disap- 
pear'd. 

Leading the horse, and they were left 
alone. 

But when the Prince had brought 

his errant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let 

them glance 
At Enid, where she droopt : his own 

false doom. 
That shadow of mistrust should never 

cross 
Betwixt them, came upon him, and he 

sigh'd; 
Then with another humorous ruth re* 

mark'd 



274 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless, 

And watch'd the sun blaze on the turn- 
ing scythe, 

And after nodded sleepily in the heat, 

Uut she, remembering her old ruin'd 
hall. 

And all the windy clamor of the daws 

About her hollow turret, pluck'd the 
grass 

There growing longest by the mead- 
ow's edge, 

And into many a listless annulet. 

Now over, now beneath her marriage- 
ring, 

Wove and unwove it, till the boy re- 
turn'd 

And told them of a chamber, and they 
went; [will, 

Where, after saying to her, " If you 

Call for the woman of the house," to 
which 

She answer'd, " Thanks, my lord ; " 
the two remain'd 

Apart by all the chamber's width, and 
mute 

As creatures voiceless thro' the fault 
of birth, 

Or two wild men supporters of a 
shield, 

Painted, who stare at open space, nor 
glance 

The one at other, parted by the shield. 

On a sudden, many a voice along 
the street, 
And heel against the pavement echo- 
ing, burst 
Their drowse ; and either started while 

the door, 
Push'd from without, drave backward 

to the wall. 
And midmost of a rout of roisterers. 
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale. 
Her suitor in old years before Geraint, 
Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, 

Limours. 
He moving up with pliant courtliness. 
Greeted Geraint full face, but stealth- 
ily, 
In the mid-warmth of -welcome and 
graspt hand, 



Found Enid v/ith the corner of his 
eye, 

And knew her sitting sad and solitarv. 

Then cried Geraint for wine and good- 
ly cheer 

To feed the sudden guest, and sump- 
tuously 

According to his fashion, bade the 
host 

Call in what men soever were his 
friends, [earl ; 

And feast with these in honor of their 

"And care not for the cost; the cost 
is mine." 

And wine and food were brought, 

and Earl Limours 
Drank till he jested with all ease, and 

told 
Free tales, and took the word and 

play'd upon it. 
And made it of two colors; for his 

talk. 
When wine and free companions kin- 
dled him, 
Was wont to glance and sparkle like a 

gem 
Of fifty facets; thus he moved the 

Prince [plause. 

To laughter and his comrades to ap- 
Then, when the Prince was merry, 

ask'd Limours, 
" Your leave, my lord, to cross the 

room, and speak 
To your good damsel there who sits 

apart 
And seems so lonely ? " " My free 

leave," he said ; 
" Get her to speak : she does not 

speak to me." 
Then rose Limours and looking at his 

feet, 
Like him who tries the bridge he fears 

may fail, 
Crost and came near, lifted adoring 

eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisper- 

ingly : 

" Enid, the pilot star of my lone 
life, 
Enid my early and my only love, 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



275 



Enid the loss of whom has turn'cl me 

wild — 
What chance is this ? how is it I see 

you here ? 
You are in my power at last, are in my 

power. 
Yet fear me not ; I call mine own self 

wild, 
But keep a touch of sweet civility 
Here in the heart of waste and wilder- 
ness. 
I thought, but that your father came 

between, 
In former days you saw me favorably. 
And if it were so do not keep it back : 
Make me a little happier : let me know 

it: 
Owe vou me nothing for a life half- 
lost .? 
Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all 

you are. 
And, Enid, you and he, I see it with 

joy— 
You sit apart, you do not speak to 

him, 
You come with no attendance, page or 

maid, [old ? 

To serve you — does he love you as of 
For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I 

know 
Tho' men may bicker with the things 

they love. 
They would not make them laughable 

in all eyes, 
Not while they loved them : and your 

wretched dress, 
A wretched insult on you, dumbly 

speaks 
Your story, that this man loves you no 

more. 
Your beauty is no beauty to him now : 
A common chance — right well I know 

it— pall'd — 
For I know men — nor will you win 

him back, 
For the man's love once gone never 

returns. 
But here is one who loves you as of 

old; 
With more exceeding passion than of 

old; 



Good, speak the word ; my followers 
I ring him round : 

I He sits unarm'd; I hold a finger up; 
I They understand : no ; I do not mean 

blood ; 
i Nor need you look so scared at what I 
j say : 

My malice is no deeper than a moat, 
No stronger than a wall : there is the 
j keep : 

He shall not cross us more ; speak but 

the word : 
Or speak it not; but then by Him that 

made me 
The one true lover which you ever 

had, 
I will make use of all the power I 

have. 
O pardon me ! the madness of that 

hour. 
When first I parted from you, moves 
me yet." 

At this the tender sound of his own 

voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it. 
Made his eye moist; but Enid fear'd 

his eyes, 
IMoist as they were, wine-heated from 

the feast ; 
And answer'd with such craft as Women 

use. 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a 

chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, 

and said : 

"Earl, if you love me as informer 
years, 

And'do not practise on me, come with 
morn, 

And snatch me from him as by vio- 
lence ; 

Leave me to-night: I am weary to the 
death." 

Low at leave-taking, with his bran- 
dish'd plume 

Brushing his instep, bow'd the all- 
amorous Earl, 

And the stout Prince bade him a loud 
good-night. 



276 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



He moving homeward babbled to his 

men, 
How Enid never loved a man but 

him, 
Nor cared a broken esjg-shell for her 

lord. 

But Enid left alone with Prince Ge- 
raint, 

Debating his command of silence 
given, 

And that she now perforce must vio- 
late it, 

Held commune with herself, and while 
she held 

He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 

To wake him, but hung o'er him, 
wholly pleased 

To find him yet unwounded after 
fight, 

And hear him breathing low and 
equally. 

Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, 
heap'd 

The pieces of his armor in one place, 

All to be there against a sudden need; 

Then dozed awhile herself, but over- 
toil'd 

By that day's grief and travel, ever- 
more 

Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, 
and then 

Went slipping down horrible preci- 
pices, 

And strongly striking out her limbs 
awoke ; 

Then thought she heard the wild Earl 
at the door, 

With all his rout of random followers, 

Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summon- 
ing her ; 

Which was the red cock shouting to 
the light. 

As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy 
world, 

And glimmer'd on his armor in the 
room. 

And once again she rose to look at 
it, 

But touch'd it unawares ; jangling, the 
casque 



Fell, and he started up and stared at 

her. 
Then breaking his command of silence 

given, 
She told him all that Earl Limouis had 

said. 
Except the passage that he loved her 

not ; 
Nor left untold the craft herself had 

used ; 
But ended with apology so sweet. 
Low-spoken, and of so few words, and 

seem'd 
So justified by that necessity, 
That tho' he thought '* was it for him 

she wept 
In Devon ? " he but gave a wrathful 

groan, 
Saying "your sweet faces make good 

fellows fools 
And traitors. Call the host and bid 

him bring [out 

Charger and palfrey." So she glided 
Among the heavy breathings of the 

house. 
And like a household Spirit at the 

walls 
Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and 

return'd : 
Then tending her rough lord, tho' all 

unask'd, 
In silence, did him service as a squire; 
Till issuing arm'd he found the host 

and cried 
'' Thy reckoning, friend .-' " and ere he 

learnt it, " Take 
Five horses and their armors ; " and 

the host 
Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 
"My lord, I scarce have spent the 

worth of one ! " 
" You will be all the wealthier," said 

the Trince, 
And then to Enid, " Forward ! and to- 
day 
I charge you, Enid, more especially. 
What thing soever you may hear or 

see. 
Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use 
To charge you) that you speak not 

but obev." 



IDYLS OF l^HE KING, 



277 



And Enid ansvver'd, "Yea, my lord, 

I know 
Your wish, and would obey : but riding 

first, 
I hear the violent threats you do not 

hear, 
I see the danger which you cannot 

see; 
Then not to give you warning, that 

seems hard: 
Almost bevond me : yet I would 

obey." ' 

"Yea, so," said he, "doit: be not 

too wise ; 
Seeing that you are wedded to a man, 
Not quite mismated with a yawning 

clown, 
But one with arms to guard his head 

and yours, 
With eyes to find you out however 

far, 
And ears to hear you even in his 

dreams." 

With that he turned and looked as 
keenly at her . 

As careful robins eye the delver's 
toil ; 

And that within her which a w-anton 
fool, 

Or hasty judger, would have called 
her guilt, 

Made her cheek burn and either eye- 
lid fall. 

And Geraint look'd and was not sat- 
isfied. 

Then forward by a way which, beaten 

broad. 
Led trom the territory of false Li- 

mours 
To the waste earldom of another earl, 
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals 

caird the Bull, 
Went Enid with her sullen follower 

on. 
Once she look'd back, and when she 

'saw him ride 
More near by many a rood than yes- 

termorn,' 



It wellnigh made her cheerful : till 

Geraint 
Waving an angry hand as who should 

say 
" You watch me," saddened all her 

heart again. 
But while the sun yet beat a dewy 

blade, 
The sound of many a heavily-galloping 

hoof 
Smote on her ear, and turning round 

she saw 
Dust, and the points of lances bicker 

in it. 
Then not to disobey her lord's behest. 
And yet to give him warning, for he 

rode 
As if he heard not, moving back she 

held 
Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. 
At which the warrior in his obstinac}-, 
Because she kept the letter of his word 
Was in a manner pleased, and turning, 

stood. 
And in the moment after, wild Li- 

mours. 
Borne on a black horse, like a thunder- 
cloud 
Whose skirts are loosen'd by the break- 
ing storm, [rode, 
Half ridden off with by the thing he 
And all in passion uttering a dry 

shriek, 
Daslvd on Geraint, who closed with 

him and bore 
Down by the length of lance and arm 

beyond 
The crupper, and so left him stunn'd 

or dead, 
And overthrew the next that follow'd 

him, 
And blindly rush'd on all the rout be- 
hind. 
But at the flash and motion of the man 
They vanish' d panic-stricken, like a 

shoal 
Of darting fish, that on a summer 

morn 
Adown the crystal dikes at Camelot 
Come slipping o'er their shadows on 
the sand, 



78 



IDYLS OF rilE laNG, 



But if a man who stands upon the 

brink 
But lift a shining hand against the sun, 
There is not left the twinkle of a fin 
Betwixt the cressy islets white in 

flower ; 
So, scared but at the motion of the 

man, 
Fled all the boon companions of the 

Earl, 
And left him lying in the public way: 
So vanish friendships only made in 

wine. 

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled 

Geraint, 
\Yho saw the chargers of the two that 

■fell 
Start from their fallen lords, and wildly 

fly, 

Mixt with the flyers. "Horse and 

man," he said, 
" All of one mind and all right-honest 

friends ! 
Not a hoof left ; and I methinks till 

now 
Was honest — paid with horses and 

with arms: 
I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : 
And so what say you, shall we strip 

him there 
Your lover ? has your palfrey heart 

enough 
To bear his armor ? shall we fast or 

dine ? 
No ? — then do you, being right honest, 

pray 
That we may meet the horsemen of 

Earl Doorm, 
I too would still be honest." Thus he 

said ; 
And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins. 
And answering not one word, she led 

the way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful 

loss 
Falls in a far land and he knows it 

not. 
But coming back he learns it, and the 

loss 



So pains him that he sickens nigh to 

death ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who being 

prick'd 
In combat with the follower of Li- 

mours, 
Bled underneath his armor secretly, 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle 

wife 
What ail'd him, hardly knowing it him- 
self, 
Till his eye darken'd and his helmet 

wagg'd ; 
And at a sudden swerving of the 

road, 
Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, 
The Prince, without a word, from his 

horse fell. 

And Enid heard the clashing of his 

fall, 
Suddenly came, and at his side all pale 
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of 

his arms, 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue 

eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his 

wound. 
And tearing off her veil of faded silk 
Had bared her forehead to the blister- 
ing sun, 
And swathed the hurt that drain'd her 

dear lord's life. 
Then after all was done that hand 

could do, 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the 

way. 

And many past, but none regarded 

her, 
For in that realm of lawless turbulence, 
A woman weeping for her murder'd 

mate 
Was cared as much for as a summer 

shower : 
One took him for a victim of Earl 

Doorm, 
Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on 

him : 
Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



279 



Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; 
Half whistling and half singing a coarse 

song, 
Pie drove the dust against her veilless 

eyes : 
A-nother, flying from the wrath of 

Doorm 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
The long way smoke beneath him in 

his fear ; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted 

heel, 
And scour'd into the coppices and was 

lost, 
While the great charger stood, grieved 

like a man. 

But at the point of noon the huge 

Earl Doorm, 
Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet 

beard, 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey. 
Came riding with a hundred lances 

up; 
But ere he came, like one that hails a 

ship. 
Cried out with a big voice, " What, is 

he dead ? " 
*' No, no, not dead ! " she answer'd in 

all haste. 
" Would some of your kind people 

take him up, • 
And bear him hence out of this cruel 

sun; 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not 

dead." 

Then said Earl Doorm : " Well, if 

he be not dead, 
Why wail you for him ihus ,'' you seem 

a child. 
And be he dead, I count vou for a 

fool ' 
Your wailing will not quicken him : 

dead or not. 
You mar a comely face wit]i idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some of 

you. 
Here, take him up, and bear him to 

our hall ; 
And if he live, wc will have him of our 

band ; 



And if he die, why earth has earth 

enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger 

too, 
A noble one." 

He spake, and past away. 
But left two brawny spearmen, who 

advanced, 
Each growling like a dog, when his 

good bone 
Seems to be pluck'd at by the village 

boys 
Who love to vex him eating, and he 

fears 
To lose his bone, and lays his foot 

upon it, 
Gnawing and growling ; so the ruffians 

grow I'd, 
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead 

man. 
Their chance of booty from the morn- 
ing's raid ; 
Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier. 
Such as they brought upon their forays 

out 
For those that might be wounded ; laid 

him on it 
All in the hollow of his shield, and 

took 
And bore him to the naked hall of 

Doorm, [led) 

(His gentle charger following him un- 
And cast him and the bier in which he 

lay 
Down on an oaken settle in the hall, 
And then departed, hot in haste to join 
Their luckier mates, but growling as 

before. 
And cursing their lost time, and the 

dead man, 
And their own Earl, and their own 

souls, and her. 
They might as well have blest her : she 

was deaf 
To blessing or to cursing save from 

one. 

So for long hours sat Enid by her 
lord, 
There in the naked hall, propping his 
head, 



28o 



JDYLS OF THE KING. 



And chafing his pale hands, and call- 
ing to him. 

And at the last he waken'd from his 
swoon, 

And found his own dear bride prop- 
ping his head, 

.\nd chafing his faint hands, and call- 
ing to him ; 

And left the warm tears falling on his 
face ; 

\nd said to his own heart, '* She weeps 
for me ; " 

\ nd yet lay still, and feign'd himself 
as dead, 

That he might prove her to the utter- 
most, 

\nd say to his own heart, *'She weeps 
for me." 



But in the falling afternoon return'd 
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to 

the hall. 
His lusty spearmen follow'd him with 

noise : 
Each hurling down a heap of things 

that rang 
Against the pavement, cast his lance 

aside. 
And doff'd his helm : and then there 

flutter'd in, 
Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated 

eyes, [hues, 

A tribe of women, dress'd in many 
And mingled with the spearmen : and 

Earl Doorm 
Struck with a knife's haft hard against 

the board. 
And call'd for flesh and wine to feed 

his spears. 
And men brought in whole hogs and 

quarter beeves. 
And all the hall was dim with steam of 

flesh : 
/\nd none spake word, but all sat down 

at once, 
And ate with tumult in the naked hall, 
J'eeding like horses when you hear 

them feed ; 
Till Enid shrank far back into herself, 
']\) shun the wild ways of the lawless 

tribe. 



But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he 
would, 
I He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and 
found 

A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 

Then he remember'd her, and how she 
wept; 
1 And out of her there came a power 
I upon him : 

I And rising on the sudden he said, 
I " Eat ! 

i I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 
j God's curse, it makes me mad to see 
I you weep. 

\ Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had 
] your good man, 

: For v»'ere I dead who is it would weep 
I for me ? 

1 Sweet lady, never since I first drew 
i breath, 

j Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 
I And so there lived some color in your 

cheek, 
I There is not one among my gentle- 
women 
I Wore fit to wear your slipper for a 
' glove. 

I But listen to me, and by me be ruled, 
! And I will do the thing I have not 
I done, 

i For you shall share my earldom with 
! me, girl, * nest, 

And we will live like two birds in one 

And I will fetch you forage from all 
fields. 

For I compel all creatures to my will." 

He spoke : the brawny spearman let 
his cheek 

Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and 
turning, stared ; 

While some, whose souls the old ser- 
pent long had drawn 

Down, as the worm draws in the with- 
er'd leaf 

And makes it earth, hiss'd each at 
other's ear 

What shall not be recorded — women 
they. 

Women, or what had been those gra- 
cious things, 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



2«i 



But now desired the humbling of their 
best, 

Yea, would have helped him to it; and 
all at once 

They hated her, who took no thought 
of them, 

But answer'd in low voice, her meek 
head yet 

Drooping, " I pray you of your cour- 
tesy. 

He being as he is, to let me be." 

She spake so low he hardly heard 
her speak. 

But like a mighty patron, satisfied 

With what himself had done so gra- 
ciously, 

Assumed that she had thanked him, 
adding, " Yea, 

Eat and be glad, for I account you 
mine." 

She answer'd meekly, " How should 
I be glad 

Henceforth in all the world at any- 
thing. 

Until my lord arise and look upon me ^" 

Here the huge Earl cried out upon 

her talk. 
As all but empty heart and weariness 
And sickly nothing ; suddenly seized 

on her, 
And bare her by main violence to the 

board, 
And thrust the dish before her, crying, 

"Eat." 

" No, no," said Enid, vext, " I will 

not eat 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise. 
And eat with me." " Drink, then," 

he answered. " Here ! " 
(And iill'd a horn with wine and held it 

to her,) 
" Lo ! I, myself, when flush'd with 

fight, or hot, 
God's curse, with anger, — often I mv- 

self, 
Before I well have drunken, scarce can 

eat : 
Drink therefore, and the wine will 

change your will " 



" Not so," she cried, " by Heaven, I 

will not drink, 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do 

it, 
And drink with me; and if he rise no 

more, 
I will not look at wine until I die." 

At this he turn'd all red and paced 

his hall. 
Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper 

Hp, . 
And commg up close to her, said at 

last: 
"Girl, for I see you scorn my courte- 
sies, 
Take warning: yonder man is surely 

dead ; 
And I compel all creatures to my will. 
Not eat nor drink.? And wherefore 

wail for one, 
Vv'ho put your beauty to this flout and 

scorn 
By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am I, 
Beholding how you butt against my 

wish. 
That I forbear you thus : cross me no 

more. 
At least put off to please me this poor 

gown, 
This silken rag, this beggar-woman's 

weed : 
I love that beauty should go beauti- 
fully : 
For see you not my gentlewomen here, 
How gay, how suited to the house of 

one. 
Who loves that beauty should go 

beautifully ! 
Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this : 

obey." 

He spoke, and one among his gentle- 
women 

Display'd a splendid silk of foreign 
loom. 

Where like a shoaling sea the lovely 
blue 

Play'd into green, and thicker down the 
front 

W^ith jewels than the sward with drops 
of dewj 



282 



JDYLS OF THE KING. 



When all night long a cloud clings to 

the hill, 
And with the dawn ascending lets the 

day 
Strike where it clung so thickly shone 

the gems. 

But Enid answer'd, harder to be 
moved 

Than hardest tyrants in their day of 
power, 

With life-long injuries burning un- 
avenged. 

And now^ their hour has come ; and 
Enid said : 

" In this poor gown my dear lord 

found me first, 
And loved me serving in my father's 

hall: 
In this poor gown I rode with him to 

court, 
And there the Queen array'd me like 

the sun : 
In this poor gown he bade me clothe 

myself. 
When now we rode upon this fatal 

quest 
Of honor, where no honor can be 

gain'd: 
And this poor gown I will not cast 

aside 
Until himself arise a living man, 
And bid me cast it. I have griefs 

enough: ' • 

Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be : 
I never loved, can never love but him: 
Yea, God, I pray you of your gentle- 
ness, 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

Then strode the brute Earl up and 

down his hall. 
And took his russet beard between his 

teeth _; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in his 

mood 
Crying, " I count it of no more avail, 
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with 

you ; 
Take my salute," unknightly with flat 

hand, 



However lightl)', smote her on the 

cheek. 
Then Enid, in her utter helplessness. 
And since she thought, *'he had not 

dared to do it. 
Except he surely knew my lord was 

dead," 
Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter 

cry. 
As of a wild thing taken in the trap. 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' 

the wood. 
This heard Geraint, and grasping at 

his sword, 
(It lay beside him in the hollow shield,) 
Made but a single bound, and with a 

sweep of it 
Shore thro' the svrarthy neck, and like 

a ball 
The russet-bearded head roll'd on the 

floor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he 

counted dead. 
And all the men and women in the 

hall 
Rose when they saw the dead man 

rise, and fled 
Yelling as from a spectre, and the two 
Were left alone together, and he said : 



"Enid I have used you worse than 

that dead man ; 
Done you more wrong : we both have 

undergone 
That trouble which has left me thrice 

your own : 
Henceforward I will rather die than 

doubt. 
And here I lay this penance on myself, 
Not, tho' mine own ears heard you yes- 

ter-morn — 
You thought me sleeping, but I heard 

you say, 
I heard you say, that you were no true 

Avife : 
I swear I will not ask your meaning in 

it: 
I do believe yourself against yourself, 
And will henceforward rather die than 

doubt." 



JDYLS OF THE KING. 



283 



And Enid could not say one tender 


As not to see before them on the path, 


word, 


Right in the gateway of the bandit 


She felt so blunt and stupid at the 


hold, 


heart : 


A knight of Arthur's court, who laid 


She only pray'dhim, " Fly, they will re- 


his lance 


turn 


In rest, and made as if to fall upon 


And slay you; fly, your charger is with- 


him. 


out. 


Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of 


My palfrey lost." " Then, Enid, shall 


blood, 


you ride 


She, with her mind all full of what had 


Behind me." " Yea," said Enid, "let 


chanced. 


us go." 


Shriek'd to the stranger, " Slay not a 


And moving out they found the stately 


dead man ! " 


horse, 


"The voice of Enid," said the knight: 


Who now no more a vassal to the thief, 


but she. 


But free to stretch his limbs in lawful 


Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, 


fight, 


Was moved so much the more, and 


Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, 


shriek'd again. 


and stopp'd 


" cousin, slay not him who gave you 


With a low whimsy toward the pair : 


life." 


and he 


And Edyrn moving frankly forward 


Kiss'd the white star upon his noble 


spake • 


front. 


" My lord Geraint, I greet you with all 


Glad also; then Geraint upon the 


love ; 


horse 


I took you for a bandit knight of 


Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on 


Doorm ; 


his foot 


And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon 


She set her own andclimb'd; he turn'd 


him, 


his face 


Vv^ho love you. Prince, with something 


And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast 


of the love 


her arms 


Wherewith we love the Heaven that 


About him, and at once they rode av»ay. 


chastens us. 




For once, when I wa.^> up so high in 

pride 
That I was half wav down the slope to 


And never yet, since high in Para- 


dise 


Hell, 


O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, 


By overthrowing me you threw me 


Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind. 


higher. 


Than lived thro' her who in that peril- 


Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table 


ous hour 


Round, 


Put hand to hand beneath her hus- 


And since I knew this Earl, when I 


band's heart. 


myself 


And felt him hers again ; she did not 


Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 


weep, 


I come the mouthpiece of our King to 


But o'er her meek eyes came a happy 


Doorm 


mist 


(The King is close behind me) bidding 


Like that which kept the heart of Eden 


him 


green 


Disband himself, and scatter all his 


Before the useful trouble of the rain : 


p wers, 


Yet not so misty were her meek blue 


Submit, and hear the judgment of the 


eyes 


King." 



284 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



*' lie hears the judgiiient of the King 

of Kings," 
Cried the wan Prince : " and lo the 

powers of Doorm 
Are scatter'd,'' and he pointed to the 

field 
Where, huddled here and there on 

mound and knoll, 
Were men and women staring and 

aghast, 
V\'hile some yet fled; and then he 

plainlicr told 
How the huge Earl lay slain within his 

hall. 
But when the knight besought him, 

" Follow me, 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's 

own ear 
Speak what has chanced ; you surely 

have endured 
Strange chances here alone ; " that 

other flush'd. 
And hung his head, and halted in re- 

p^y. 

Fearing the mild face of the blameless 

King, [ask'd : 

And after madness acted question 
Till Edyrn crying, " If you will not go 
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to 

you," 
" Enough," he said, " I follow," and 

they went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears, 
One from the bandit scatter'd in the 

field, 
And one from Edyrn. Every now and 

then, 
W^hen Edyrn rein'd his charger at licr 

side. 
She shrank a little. In a hollow land, 
From which old ^res have broken, men 

may fear 
Fresh fire znd ruin. He, perceiving, 

said : 

" Fair and dear cousin, you that most 

had cause 
To fear me, fear no longer, I am 

changed. 
Yourself were first the blameless cause 

to make 



My nature's pridcful sparkle in the 

blood 
Break into furious flame ; being re- 
pulsed 
By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and 

wrought 
Until I overturn'd him ; then set up 
(With one main purpose ever at my 

heart) 
My haughty jousts, and took a para- 
mour; 
Did her mock-honor as the fairest fair, 
And, toppling over all antagonism. 
So wax'd in pride, that I believed my 

self [mad : 

Unconquerable, for I was well-nigh 
And, but for my main purpose in these 

jousts, 
I should have slain your father, seized 

yourself. 
I lived in hope that some time you 

would come 
To these my lists with him whom best 

you loved ; 
And there, poor cousin, with your meek 

blue eyes, 
The truest eyes that ever answer'd 

heaven. 
Behold me overturn and trample on 

him. 
Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd 

to me, 
I should not less have killed him. And 

you came, — 
But once you came, — and with your 

own true eyes 
Ileheld the man you loved (I speak as 

one 
Speaks of a service done him) over- 
throw 
My proud self, and my purpose three 

years old. 
And set his foot upon me, and give me 

life. 
There was I broken dow'n ; there was I 

saved : 
Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating 

the life 
He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. 
And all the penance the Queen laid 

upon me 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



SS5 



Was but to rest awhile within her 

court ; 
Where first as sullen as a beast new- 
caged, 
And waiting to be treated like a wolf 
Because I knew my deeds were known, 

1 found, 
Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, 
Such fine reserve and noble reticence, 
Manners so kind, yet stately, such a 

grace 
Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 
To glance behind me at my former life, 
And find that it had been the wolf's 

indeed : 
And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high 

saint. 
Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, 
Subdued me somewhat to that gentle- 
ness, 
Which, when it weds with manhood, 

makes a man. 
And you where often there about the 

Queen, 

But saw me not, or marked not if you 

saw ; [you. 

Nor did I care or dare to speak with 

But kept myself aloof till I was 

changed ; 
And fear not, cousin ; I am changed 
indeed." 

He spoke, and Enid easily believed. 
Like simple noble natures, credulous 
Of what they long for, good in friend 

or foe. 
There most in those who most have 

done :hem ill. 
And when they reach'd the camp the 

king himself 
Advanced to greet them, and beholding 

her 
Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a 

word, 
But went apart with Edyrn, whom he 

held 
In converse for a little and return'd, 
And gravely smiling, lifted her from 

horse, 
And kiss'd her with all pureness, bro- 
ther-like, 



And show'd an empty tent allotted her, 
And glancing for a minute, till he saw 

her 
Pass into it, turn'd to the Prince, and 

said : 

" Prince, when of late you pray'd me 

for my leave 
To move to your own land, and there 

defend 
Your marches, I was prick'd with some 

reproof, 
As one that let foul wrong stagnate 

and be, 
By having look'd too much thro' alien 

eyes. 
And wrought too long with delegated 

hands, 
Not used mine own : but now behold 

me come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all 

my realm. 
With Edvrnand with others : have you 

look'd 
At Edyrn ? have you ^een how nobly 

changed t 
This work of his is great and wonder- 
ful. 
His very face ^vitL change of heart is 

changed. 
The world will not believe a man re- 
pents : 
And this wise world of* ours is mainly 

right. 
Full seldom does a man repent, or use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious 

quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of him, 
And make all clean, and plant himself 

afresh. 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart 
As'l will weed this land before I go. 
I, therefore, made him of our Table 

Round, 
Not rashly, but have proved him every 

way 
One of our noblest, our most valorous. 
Sanest and most obedient r and indeed 
This work of Edyrn v/rought upon him- 
self 
After a life of violence, seems to me 



^86 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



A thousand-fold more great and wonder- 
ful 

Than if some knight of mine, risking 
his life, 

My subject with my subjects under him, 

Should make an onslaught single on a 
realm 

Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by 
one. 

And were himself nigh wounded to 
the death." 

So spake the king ; low bow'd the 

Prince and felt 
His work was neither great nor wonder- 
ful. 
And past to Enid's tent ; and thither 

came 
The King's own leech to look into'his 

hurt ; 
And Enid tended on him there; and 

there 
Her constant motion round him, and 

the breath 
Of her sweet tendance hovering over 

him, 
Fill'd all the genial courses of his blood 
With deeper and with ever deeper love 
At the south-west that blowing Bala 

lake 
Fills all tl^e sacred Dee. So past the 

days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of his 
hurt. 

The blameless King went forth and 
cast his eyes 

On whom his father Uther left in 
charge 

Long since, to guard the justice of the 
King : 

He look'd and found them wanting ; 
and as now 

Men weed the white horse on the Berk- 
shire hills 

To keep him bright and clean as here- 
tofore. 

He rooted out the slothful officer 

Or guilty, which f ^r bribe had wink'd 
at wrong. 

And in their chairs set up a stronger 
race 



With hearts and hands, and sent a 
thousand men 

To till the wastes, and moving every- 
where 

Clear'd the dark places and let in the 
law, 

And broke the bandit holds and "clean- 
sed the land. 

Then, when Geraint was whole again, 

they past 
With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 
There the great Queen once more 

embraced her friend, 
And clothed her in apparel like the day. 
And tho' Geraint could never take 

again 
That comfort from their converse which 

he took 
Before the Queen's fair name was 

breathed upon, 
He rested well content that all was 

well. rode. 

Thence after tarrying for a space they 
And fifty knights rode with them to the 

§hores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land. 
And there he kept the justice of the 

King 
So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts 
Applauded, and the spiteful whisper 

died : 
And being ever foremost in the chase. 
And victor at the tilt and tournament, 
They call'd him the great Prince and 

man of men. 
But Enid, whom her ladies loved to 

call 
Enid the Fair, a grateful people named 
Enid the Good ; and in their halls 

arose 
The cry of children, Enids and Geraints 
Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her 

more 
But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd 
A happy life with a fair death, and fell 
Against the heathen of the Northern 

Sea 
In battle, fighting for the blameless 

King. 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



287 



VIVIEN. 

A STORM was coming, but the winds 

were still, 
And in the wild woods of Broceliande, 
Before an oak, so hollow huge and 

old, 
It look'd a tower of ruin'd masonwork, 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. 

The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's 

court : 
She hated all the knights, and heard in 

thought 
Their lavish comment when her name 

was named. 
For once when Arthur walking all 

alone, 
Vext at a rumor rife about the Queen, 
Had met her, Vivien, being greeted 

fair, 
Would fain have wrought upon his 

cloudy mood 
With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken 

voice, 
And flutter'd adoration, and at last 
With dark sweet hints of some who 

prized him more 
Than who should prize him most ; at 

which the King 
Had gazed upon lier blankly and gone. 

by: 
But one had watch'd, and had not held 

his peace : 
It made the laughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien should attempt the blame- 
less King. 
And after that, she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all 

those times, [arts. 

Merlin, who knew the range of all their 
Had built the King his havens, ships, 

and halls. 
Was also Bard, and knew the starry 

heavens ; 
The people called him Wizard ; whom 

at first 
She play'd about with slight and 

sprightly talk. 
And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom'd 

points 



I Of slander, glancing here and grazing 
I there ; 

I And yielding to his kindlier moods, the 
j Seer 

I Would watch her at her petulance, and 
play, 
Ev'n when they seem'd unlovable, and 

laugh 
As those that watch a kitten ; thus he 

grew 
Tolerant of what he half disdain'd, and 

she. 
Perceiving that she was b^it half dis- 
dain'd, 
Began to break her sports with graver 

fits. 
Turn red or pale, would often when 

they met 
Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 
With such a fixt devotion, that the old 

man, 
Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at 

times 
Would flatter his own wish in age for 

love. 
And half believe her true : for thus at 

times 
He waver'd ; but that other clung to 

him, 
Fixt in her will, and so the seasons 

went. 
Then fell upon him a great melancholy; 
And leaving Arthur's court he gain'd 

the beach ; 
There found a little boat, and stept 

into it ; 
And Vivien follow'd, but he mark'd 

her not. 
She took the helm and he the sail ; the 

boat 
Drave with a sudden wind across the 

deeps, 
And touching Breton sands they disem- 

bark'd. 
And then she follow'd ]\ierlin all the 

way, 
Ev'n to' the wild woods of Broceliande, 
For Merlin once had told her of a charm 
The which if any wrought on any one 
With woven paces and with waving 
"" arms. 



288 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



The man so wrought on ever seem'd to 

lie 
Closed in the four walls of the hollow 

tower, 
From which was no escape forever- 
more ; 
And none could find that man forever- 
more, 
Nor could he see but him who wrought 

the charm 
Coming and going, and he lay as dead 
And lost to life and use and name and 

fame. 
And Vivien ever sought to work the 

charm 
Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, 
As fancying that her glory would be 

great 
According to his greatness whom she 

quench'd. 
There lay she all her length and kiss'd 

his feet, 
As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair ; a 

robe 
Of samite without price, that more ex- 

prest 
Than hid her, clung about her lissome 

limbs, 
Tn color liivc the satin-shining palm 
On sallows in the windy gleams of 

INIarch : 
And while she kiss'd them, crying, 

" Trample me. 
Dear feet, that I have follow'd thro' 

the world. 
And I will pay you worship; tread me 

down 
And I will kiss you for it ; " he was 

mute : 
So dark a forethought roll'd about his 

brain. 
As on a dull day in an Ocean cave 
The blind wave feeling round his long 

seahall 
In silence : wherefore, when she lifted 

A face of sad appeal, and spake and 

said, 
" O Merlin, do you love me ? " and 

again, 



" O Merlin, do you love me ? " and 

once more, 
" Great Master, do you love me ?" he 

was mule. 
And lissome Vivien, holding by his 

heel, 
Writhed toward him, slided up his 

knee and sat, 
Behind his ankle twined her hollow 

feet [neck. 

Together, curved an arm about his 
Clung like a snake ; and letting her 

left hand 
Droop from his mighty shoulder as a 

leaf, 
Made with her right a comb of pearl to 

part 
The lists of such a beard as youth gone 

out 
Had lei in ashes : then he spoke and 

said, 
Not looking at her, " Who are wise in 

love 
Love most, say least," and Vivien 

answer'd quick, 
" I saw the little elf-god eyeless once 
In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot : 
But neither eyes nor tongue, — O stupid 

child ! 
Yet you are wise who say it ; let me 

think 
Silence is wisdom : I am silent then 
And ask no kiss ; " then adding all at 

once, 
" And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom," 

drew 
The vast and shaggy mantle of his 

beard 
Across her neck and bosom to her 

knee. 
And call'd herself a gilded summer fly 
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's 

web. 
Who meant to eat her up in that wild 

wood 
Without one word. So Vivien call'd 

herself. 
But rather seem'd a lovely baleful 

star 
Veil'd in gray vapor ; till he sadly 

smiled: 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



" To wliat request for Avhat strange : 
boon," he said, j 

" Are these your pretty tricks and [ 
fooleries, j 

O Vivien, the preamble ? yet my i 
thanks, ' | 

For these have broken up my melan- 
choly." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily, 
" What, O my master, have you found 

your voice ? 
T bid the stranger welcome. Thanks 

at last ! 
But yesterday you never open'd lip, 
Except indeed to drink : no cup had 

we : 
In mine own lady palms I cull'd the 

spring 
That gather'd trickling dropwise from 

the cleft, 
And made a pretty cup of both my 

hands ' [drank 

And offer'd you it kneeling : then you 
And knew no more, nor gave me one 

poor word ; 
O no more thanks than might a goat 

have given 
AVith no more sign of- reverence than a 

beard. 
And v.'hen he halted at that other well, 
And I was faint to swooning, and you 

lay [those 

Foot-gilt with all .he blossom-dust of 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did 

you know 
That Vivien bathed your feet before 

her own ? 
And yet no thanks : and all thro' this 

wild wood 
And all this morning when I fondled 

you : 
Boon, yes, there was a boon, one not 

so strange — 
How had I wrong'd you ? surely you 

are wise. 
But such a silence is more wise than 

kind." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 
and said : 
" O did you never lie upon the shore, 

19 



And watch the curl'd white of the com- 
ing wave 

Glass'd in the slippery sand before it 
breaks ? 

Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleasur- 
able, 

Dark in the glass of some presageful 
mood. 

Had I for three davs seen, ready to 
fall. 

And then I rose and fled from Arthur's 
court 

To break the mood. You follow'd 
me unask'd ; 

And when I look'd, and saw you fol- 
lowing still, 

My mind involved yourself the nearest 
thing 

In that mind-mist : for shall I tell you 
truth ? 

You seem'd that v/ave about to break 
upon me 

A,nd sweep me from my hold upon the 
world. 

My use and name and fame. Your 
pardon, child. 

Your pretty sports have brighten'd all 
again. 

And ask your boon, for boon I owe you 
thrice, 

Once for wrong done you by confusion, 
next 

For thanks it seems till now neglected, 
last 

For these your dainty gambols : where- 
■ fore ask : 

And take this boon so strange and not 
so strange." 

And Vivien ansv.-er'd, smiling mourn- 
fully : 
" O not so strange as my long asking 

it, 
Nor yet so strange as you yourself are 

strange. 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood 

of yours. 
I ever fear'd you were not wholly mine ; 
And see, yourself liave own'd you did 

me wrong. 
The people call you prophet : let it be ; 



290 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



But not of those that can expound 

themselves. 
Take Vivien for expounder; she will 

call 
That three-days-long presageful gloom 

of yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful 

mood 
That makes you seem less noble than 

yourself, 
Whenever I have ask'd this very boon, 
Now ask'd again : for see you not, 

dear love. 
That such a mood as that, which lately 

gloom'd 
Your fancy when you saw me following 

you, 
Must make me fear still more you are 

not mine, 
Must make me yearn still more to 

prove you mine, 
And make me v.ish still more to learn 

this charm 
Of woven paces and of v/aving hands. 
As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it 

me. 
The charm so taught will charm us 

both to rest. 
For, grant me some slight power upon 

your fate, 
I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, 
Should rest and let you rest, knowing 

you mine. 
And therefore be as great as you are 

named. 
Not muffled round with selfish reticence. 
How hard you look and how dcny- 

ingly ! 
O, if you think this wickedness in me. 
That' I should prove it on you un- 
awares, 
To make you lose your use and name 

and fame, 
That makes me most indignant ; then 

our bond 
Had best be loosed forever: but think 

or not. 
By Heaven that hears I tell you the 

clean truth. 
As clean as blood of babe?, as white as 

milk : 



Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 

If these unwitty wandering wits of 

mine, 
Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a 

dream, 
Have tript on such conjectural treach- 
ery- 
May this hard earth cleave to the 

Nadir hell 
Down, down, and close again, and nip 

me flat, 
If I be such a traitress. Yield my 

boon. 
Till which I scarce can yield you all I 

am ; 
And grant my re-reiterated wish. 
The great proof of vour love ; because 

I think. 
However wise, you hardly know me 

yet." 

And Merlin loosed his hand from her 

and said : 
" I never was less wise, however wise, 
Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of 

trust, 
Than when I told you first of such a 

charm. 
Yea, if you talk of trust I tell you this» 
Too much I trusted, when I told you 

that. 
And stirr'd this vice in yon which 

ruin'd man 
Thro' woman the first hour ; for how- 

soe'er 
In children a great curiousness be 

well, 
^Vho have to learn themselves and all 

the world. 
In vou, that are no child, for still I find 
Yolir face is practised, when I spell 

the lines, 

1 call it, — well, I will not call it vice : 
But since you name yourself the sum- 
mer fly, 

I well could wish a cobweb for the 

gnat, 
That settles, beaten back, and beaten 

back 
Settles, till one could yield for weari- 
J ness; 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



291 



But since I will not yield to give you 

power 
Upon my life and use and name and 

fame, 
Why will you never ask some other 

boon ? 
Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too 

much." 

And Vivien, like the tenderest- 

hearted maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile, 
Made answer, either eyelid wet with 

tears. 
"Nay, master, be not v>-rathful with 

your maid ; 
Caress her : let her feel herself for- 
given 
Who feels no heart to ask another 

boon. 
I think you hardly know the tender 

rhyme 
Of 'trust me not at all or all in all.' 
I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it 

once, 
And it shall answer for me. Listen 

to it. 

' In Love, if Love be Love, if Love 

be ours. 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal 

powers : 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 

'It is the little rift within the lute, 
']'hat by and by will make the music 

mute, 
7^,nd ever widening slowly silence all. 

' The little rift within the lover's lute. 
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit. 
That rotting inward slov.'ly moulders 
all. 

'It is not worth the keeping: let it 

go: 
But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, 

no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all.' 

P master, do you loye my tender 
rhyme ? " 



And Merlin look'd and half believed 

her true. 
So tender was her voice, so fair her 

face, 
So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind 

her tears 
Like sunlight on the plain behind a 

shower: 
And yet he answer'd half indignantly : 

" Far other was the song that once I 

heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where 

we sit : 
For here we met, some ten or twelve 

of us, [then 

To chase a creature that was current 
In these wild woods, the hart with 

golden horns. 
It was the time when first the question 

rose 
About the founding of a Table Round- 
That was to be, for love of God and 

men 
And noble deeds, the flower of all the 

world. 
And each incited each to noble deeds. 
And while v^'e waited, one, the voungest 

of us, - 
We could not keep him silent, out he 

fiash'd, 
And into such a song, such fire for 

fame. 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming 

dov/n 
To such a stern and iron-clashing close, 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl 

together, 
And should have done it ; but the 

beauteous beast 
Scared by the noise upstarted at our 

feet, 
And like a silvf r shadow slipt away 
Thro' the dim land; and all day long 

we rode 
Thro' the dim land against a rushing 

wind. 
That glorious roundel echoing in our 

ears, 
And chased the fvashes of his golden 

horns 



292 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Until they vanish'd by the fairy well 
That laughs at iron — as our warriors 

did— 
Where children cast their pins and 

Hafls, and cry, 
" Laugh little well," but touch it with 

a sword, 
It buzzes wildly round the point ; and 

there 
We lost him: such a noble song was 

that. 
But, Vivien, when you sang me that 

sweet rhyme, 
I felt as tho' you knew this cursed 

charm, 
"Were proving it on me, and that I lav 
And felt them slowly ebbing, name and 

fame." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling mourn- 
fully; 

" O mine have ebb'd away forever- 
more, 

And all thro' following you to this wild 
wood, 

Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. 

Lo now, what hearts have men ! they 
never mount 

As high as woman in her selfless mood. 

And touching fame, howe'er you scorn 
my song 

Take one verse more — the ladv speaks 
it— this: 

'My name, once mine, now thine, is 

closlier mine, 
For fame, could fame be mine, that 

fame were thine, 
And shame, could shame be thine, that 

shame were mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all.' 

" Says she not well ? and there is 

more — this rhyme 
Is liJce the fair pearl necklace of the 

Queen, 
That burst in dancing, and the pearls 

were spilt ; 
Some lost, some stolen, some as relics 

kept. 
But nevermore the sam.e two sister 

pearls 



Ran down the silken thread to kiss 

each other 
On her white neck — so it is with this 

rhyme ; 
It lives dispersedly in many hands. 
And every minstrel sings it differ- 
ently ; 
Yet there is one true line, the pearl of 

pearls ; 
'Man dreams of Fame while woman 

wakes to love.' 
True : Love, tho' Love were of the 

grossest, carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest; but 

Fame, 
The Fame that follows death is noth- 
ing to us ; 
And what is Fame in life but half-dis- 

fame. 
And counterchanged with darkness ? 

you yourself 
Know well that Envy calls you Devil's 

son, 
And since vou seem the IMaster of all 

Art; 
They fain would make you Master of 

all Vice." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 

and said, 
" I once was looking for a magic weed, 
And found a fair young squire who 

sat alone, 
Had carved himself a knightly shield 

of wood, 
And then was painting on it fancied 

arms. 
Azure, an Eagle rising, or, the Sun 
In dexter chief ; the scroll * I follow 

fame.' 
And speaking not, but leaning over 

him, 
I took his brush and blotted out the 

bird, 
And made a Gardener milting in a 

graff, 
With this for motto, ' Rather use than 

fame.' 
You should have seen him blush; but 

afterwards 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



He made a stalwart knight. O 

Vivien, 
For you, methinks you think you love 

me well ; 
For me, I love you somewhat : rest : 

and Love 
Should have some rest and pleasure 

in himself, 
NTot ever be too curious for a boon. 
Too prurient for a proof against the 

grain 
Of him you say you love : but Fame 

with men, 
Being but ampler means to serve man- 
kind. 
Should have small rest or pleasure in 

herself. 
But work as vassal to the larger love 
That dwarfs the petty love of one to 

one, 
Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame 

again 
Increasing gave me use. Lo, there 

my boon ! 
What other .? for men sought to prove 

me vile. 
Because I wish'd to give them greater 

minds ; 
And then did Envy call me Devil's 

son ; 
The sick weak beast seeking to help 

herself 
By striking at her better, miss'd, and 

brought 
Her own claw bnck, and wounded her 

own heart. 
Sweet were the days when I was all 

unknown. 
But when my name v/as lifted up, the 

storm 
Broke on the mountain and I cared 

not for it. 
Right well know I that Fame is half 

disfame. 
Yet needs must work my work. That 

other fame. 
To one at least, who hath not children, 

vague. 
The cackle of the unborn about the 

grave, 
I cared not for it; a single misty star, 



} Which is the second in a line of stars 

j That seem a sword beneath a belt of 

! . three, 

' I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 

; Of some vast charm concluded in that 

! star 

j To make fame nothing. Wherefore, 

if I fear, 
I Giving you power upon me thro' this 
I charm, 

I That you might play me falsely, hav- 
j ing power, 

I However well you think you love me 

now 
I (As sons of kings loving in pupilage 

Have turn'd to tyrants when they came 
to power) 

I rather dread the loss of use than 
fame ; 

If vou — and not so much from wicked- 



mood 

Of overstrain'd affection, it may be. 
To keep me ail to your own self, or 

else 
A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy. 
Should try this charm on whom you 

say you love." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling as in 

wrath : 
" Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. 

Good ! 
Well, hide it, hide it ; I shall find it 

out ; 
And being found take heed of Vivien. 
A woman and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger 

born 
Of your misfajth ; and your fine epithet 
Is accurate too, for this full love of 

mine 
Without the full heart, back may merit. 

well 
Your term of overstrain'd. So used 

as I, 
My daily wonder is, I loved at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, O why 

not? 
O to what end, except a jealous one, 



294 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



And one to make me jealous if I love, 
Was this fair charm invented by your- 
self ? 
I well believe that all about this world 
You cage a buxom captive here and 

there, 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow 

tower 
From which is no escape forever- 
more." 

Then the great Master merrily an- 

swer'd her ; 
" Full many a love in loving youth was 

mine, 
I needed then no charm to keep them 

mine 
But youth and love ; and that full heart 

of yours 
Whereof you prattle, may now assure 

you mine ; 
So live uncharm'd. For those who 

wrought it first, 
The wrist is parted from the hand that 

waved, 
The feet unmortised from their ankle- 
bones 
Who paced it, ages back : but will you 

hear 
The legend as in guerdon for your 

rhyme ? 

" There lived a king in the most 

Eastern East, 
Eess old than I, yet older, for my 

blood 
Hath earnest in it of far springs to 

be. 
A tawny pirate anchor'd '\\\ his port, 
Whose bark had plunder'd twenty 

nameless isles ; 
And passing one, at the high peep of 

dawn, 
He saw two cities in a thousand boats 
Ml fighting for a woman on the sea. 
And pushing his black craft among 

them all, 
He lightly scattcr'd theirs and brought 

her off, 
With loss of half his people arrow- 
slain ; 



A maid so smooth, so white, so won- 
derful. 

They said a light came from her when 
she moved : 

And since the pirate would not yield 
her up. 

The King impaled him for his piracy ; 

Then made her Queen : but those isle- 
nurtur'd eyes 

Waged such unwilling tho' successful 
war 

On all the youth, they sicken'd ; coun- 
cils thinn'd, 

And armies waned, for magnet-like 
she drew 

The rustiest iron of old fighters' 
hearts ; 

And beasts themselves would wor- 
ship ; camels knelt 

Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain 
back 

That carr- kings in castles, bow'd black 
knees 

Of homage, ringing with their serpent 
hands. 

To make her smile, her golden ankle- 
bells, [sent 

What wonder being jealous, that he 

His horns of proclamation out thro' 
all 

The hundred under-kingdoms that he 
sway'd 

To find a wizard who might teach the 
King 

Some charm, which being wrought 
upon the Queen 

Might keep her all his own : to such a 
one 

He promised more than ever king had 
given, 

A league of mountain full of golden 
mines, 

A province with a hundred miles of 
coast, 

A palace and a princess, all for him : 

But on all those who tried and fail'd, 
the King 

Pronounced a dismal sentence, mean- 
ing by it 

To keep the list low and pretenders 
back, 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



295 



Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 
Their heads should moulder on the 

city gates. 
And many tried and fail'd, because the 

charm 
Of nature in her overbore their own : 
And many a wizard brow bleach'd on 

the walls : 
And many weeks a troop of carrion 

crows 
Hung like a cloud above the gateway 

towers." 

And Vivien, breaking in upon him, 

said : 
"I sit and gather honey; yet, me- 

thinks, 
Your tongue has tript a little : ask 

yourself. 
The lady never made lutivilling war 
With those fine eyes : she had pleasure 

in it. 
And made her good man jealous with 

good cause. 
And lived there neither dame nor dam- 
sel then 
Wroth at a lover's loss ? were all as 

tame, 
I mean, as noble, as their Queen was 

fair ? 
Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes. 
Or pinch a murderous dust into her 

drink, [rose .? 

Or make her paler with a poison'd 
Well, those were not our days ; but 

did they find 
A wizard .'' Tell me, was he like to 

thee?" 

She ceased, and made her lithe arm 

around his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let 

her eyes 
Speak for her, glowing on. him, like a 

bride's 
Dn her new lord, her own, the first of 

men. 

He answer'd laughing, " Nay, not 
like to me. 
(^t. last they found— his foragers for 
charms — 



A little glassy-headed hairless man, 
Who lived alone in a great wild on 

grass ; 
Read but one book, and ever reading 

grew 
So grated down and filed away with 

thought, 
So lean his eyes were monstrous ; 

while the skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs 

and spine. 
And since he kept his mind on one 

sole aim. 
Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor ta^^ted 

flesh, [wall 

Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the 
That sunders ghosts and shadow-cast- 
ing men 
Became a crystal, and he saw them 

thro' it, 
And heard their voices talk behind 

the wall, 
And learnt their elemental secrets, 

powers 
And forces; often o'er the sun's bright 

eye 
Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud. 
And lash'd it at the base with slanting 

storm ; 
Or in the noon of mist and driving 

rain, 
When the lake whiten'd and the pine- 
wood roar'd, 
And the cairn'd mountain was a shadow, 

sunn'd 
The world to peace again : here was 

the man. 
And so by force they dragg'd him to 

the King. 
And then he taught the King to charm 

the Queen 
In such wise, that no man could see 

her more, 
Nor saw she save the King, who 

wrought the charm, 
Coming and going, and she lay as 

dead. 
And lost all use of life : but when the 

King 
Made proffer of the league of golden 

mines, 



296 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



The province with the hundred miles 

of coast, 
The palace and the princess, that old 

man 
Went back to his old wild, and lived 

on grass, 
And vanish'd, and his book came down 

to me." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling sauc- 
ily : 

" Vou have the book : the charm is 
written m it : 

Good : take my counsel : let me know 
it at once : 

For keep it like a puzzle chest in 
chest. 

With each chest lock'd and padlock'd 
thirty-fold, 

And whe'lm all this beneath as vast a 
mound 

As after furious battle turfs the slain 

On some wild down above the windy 
deep, 

I yet should strike upon a sudden 
means 

To dig, pick, open, find and read the 
charm : 

Then, if I tried it, who should blame 
me then ? " 
And smiling as a Master smiles at 
one 

That is not of his school, nor any 
school 

But that where blind and naked Ignor- 
ance 

Delivers brawling judgments, un- 
ashamed, 

On all things all day long, he an- 
swered her, ■ 
" You read the book, my pretty 
Vivien ! 

O ay, it is but twenty pages long, 

But'every page having an ample marge. 

And every marge enclosing in the 
midst 

A square of text that looks a little blot, 

The text no larger than the limbs of 
fleas; 

And every square of text an awful 
charm, 



Writ in a language that has long gone 

by. 
So long, that mountains have arisen 

since 
With cities on their flanks — you read 

the book ! 
And every margin scribbled, crost and 

cramm'd 
With comment, densest condensation, 

hard 
To mind and eye ; but the long sleep- 
less nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to 

me. 
And none can read the text, not even I; 
And none can read the comment but 

myself ; 
And in the comment did I find the 

charm. 
O, the results are simple ; a mere child 
Might use it to the harm of any one, 
And never could undo it : ask no more : 
For tho' you should not prove it upon 

me. 
But keep that oath you swore, you 

might, perchance, 
Assay it on some one of the Table 

Round, 
And all because you dream they babble 

of you." 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, 

said : 
'' W^hat dare the full-fed liars say of 

me ? 
Thty ride abroad redressing human 

wrongs ! 
They sit with knife in meat and wine in 

horn. 
They bound to holy vows of chastity I 
W£re I not woman, I could tell a tale. 
But you are man, you well can under- 
stand 
The shame that cannot be explain'd for 

shame. 
Not one of all the drove should touch 

me : swine 1 " 

Then answer'd Merlin careless of her 
w^ords, 
*' You breathe but accusation vast and 
J vague, 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



■97 



Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If I Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole 



you know 



prey 



Set up the charge you know, to stand Is man's good name : he never wronged 

his bride. 
I know the tale. An angry gust of 

wind 
Puff'd out his torch among the myriad- 

room'd 
And many-corridor'd complexities 
Of Arthur's palace : then he found a 

door 
And darkling felt the sculptured orna- 
ment 
That wreathen found it made it seem 

his own ; 
And wearied out made for the couch 

and slept, 
A L-tainless man beside a stainless 

maid ; 
And either slept, nor knew of other 

there ; 
Till the high dawn piercing the royal 

rose 
In Arthur's casement glimmer'd chastely 

down, 



or fall ! 

And Vivien answer'd, frowning 
wratlifully ; 

" O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him 

Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er 
'his wife 

And two fair babes, and went to dis- 
tant lands; [found 

Was one year gone, and on returning 

Not two but three : there lay the reck- 
ling, one 

But one hour old ! What said the 
happy sire ? 

A seven months' babe had been a truer 
gift. 

Those twelve sweet moons confused 
his fatherhood ! " 

Then answer'd Merlin : " Nay, I 
know the tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outland 
dame : 



Some cause had kept him sunder'd i Blushing upon them blushing, and at 

from his wife : j once 

One child they had : it lived with her: | He rose without a word and parted 



she died 



from her 



His kinsman travelling on his own af- ! But when the thing was blazed about 



fair 



the court, 



Was charged by Valence to bring home i The brute world howling forced them 



the child. 

He brought, not found it therefore 
take the truth." 



" O ay," said Vivien, " overtrue a 
tale. 

What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagra- 
more, 

That ardent man .' * to pluck the flower 
in season 

So says the song, ' I trow it is no trea- 
son.' 

O Master, shall we call him overquick 

To crop his own sweet rose before the 
hour .^" 



into bonds, 
And as it chanced they are happv, 
being pure." 



" O ay," said Vivien, " that were 
likely too. 
What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale 
And of the horrid foulness that he 

wrought. 
The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of 

Christ, 
Or some black wether of St. Satan'r 

foid. 
AVhat, in the precincts of the chape' 
yard. 

And Merlin answer'd: ''Overquick I Among the knightly brasses of the 
are you I graves, 

To catch a lofty plume fall'n from the ■ And by the cold Hie Jacets of the 
wing _ I dead I " 



298 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



And Merlin answer'd, careless of her 

charge : 
" A sober man is Percivale and pure ; 
But once in life was fluster'd with new 

wine ; 
Then paced for coolness in the chapel- 
yard, 
^Vhere one of Satan's shepherdesses 

caught 
And meant to stamp him with her 

master's mark; 
And that he sinn'd, is not believable ; 
For, look upon his face ! — but if he 

sinn'd, 
The sin that practice burns into the 

blood, 
And not the one dark hour which brings 

remorse, 
Will brand us, after, of whose fold we 

be: 
Or else were he, the holy king, whose 

hymns 
Are chanted in the minster, worse than 

all. 
But is your spleen froth'd out, or have 



And Vivien answer'd frowning yet in 

wrath : 
*'Oay; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, 

friend ? 
Traitor or true ? that commerce with 

the Queen. 
I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child, 
Or whisper'd in the corner ? do you 

know it ? " 

To which he answer'd sadly : " Yea, 

I know it. 
Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first. 
To fetch her, and she took him for the 

King ; 
So fixt her fancy on him : let him be. 
But have you no one word of loyal 

praise 
For Arthur, blameless King and stain- 
• less man ? " 

She answer'd with a low and chuck- 
ling laugh: 
*' Him ? is he a man at all, who knows 
and winks ? 



Sees what his fair bride is and does, 
and winks ? 

By which the good king means to blind 
himself, 

And blinds himself and all the Table 
Round 

To all the foulness that they work. 
Myself _ 

Could call him (were it not for woman- 
hood) 

The pretty, popular name such man- 
hood earns, 

Could call him the main cause of all 
their crime ; 

Yea, were he not crown' d king, coward, 
and fool." 

Then Merlin to his own heart, 
loathing, said : 

'* O true and tender I O my liege and 
king ! 

O selfless man and stainless gentleman, 

Who wouldst against thine own eye- 
witness fain 

Have all men true and leal, all women 
pure : 

How, in the mouths of base interpre- 
ters. 

From over-fineness not intelligible 

To things with every sense as false and 
foul 

As the poached filth that floods the 
middle street, 

Is thy white blamelessness accounted 
blame ! " 

But Vivien deeming Merlin over- 
borne 
By instance, recommenced, and let her 

tongue 
Rage like a fire among the noblest 

names, 
Polluting, and imputing her whole self, 
Defaming and defacing, till she left 
Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad 
clean. 

Her words had issue other than she 

will'd. 
He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, 

and made 
A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, 



IDYLS OF THE KIXG. 



299 



And mutter'd in himself, " Tell ///r the 

charm ! 
So, if she had it, would she rail on me 
To snare the next, and if she have it 

not, 
So will she rail. What did the wanton 

say ? 
'Not mount as high;' \vc scarce can 

sink as low : 
For m.en at most differ as Heaven and 

earth, 
But women, worst and b'est, as Heaven 

and Hell. 
I know the Table Round, my friends of 

old; 
All brave, and many generous, and 

some chaste. 
I think she cloaks the wounds of loss 

^Yith lies ; 
I do believe she tempted them and 

fail'd. 
She is so bitter : for fine plots may 

fail, 
Tho' harlots paint their talk as well as 

face 
With colors of the heart that are not 

theirs. 
I will not let her know: nine tithes of 

times 
Face-flatterers and backbiters are the 

same. 
And they, sweet soul, that most impute 

a crime- 
Are pronest to it, and impute them- 
selves. 
Wanting the mental rage ; or low de- 
sire 
Not to feel lowest makes them level 

all: 
Yea. they would pare the mountain to 

the plain, 
To leave an equal baseness ; and in 

this 
Are harlots like the crowd, that if they 

find 
Some stain or blemish in a name of 

note, 
Not grieving that their greatest are so 

small. 
Inflate themselves with some insane de- 
light, 



And judge all nature from her feet of 
clay. 

Without the will to lift their eyes, and 
see 

Her godlike head crown'd with spirit- 
ual fire. 

And touching other worlds. I am 
weary of her." 

He spoke in words part heard, in 

whispers part, 
Half-sullocated in the hoary fell 
And many-win ter'd fleece of throat and 

chin. 
But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his 

mood, 
And hearing " h."rlot " muttc r'd twice or 

thrice. 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and 

stood 
Stiff as a viper frozen : loathsome 

sight, [love, 

How from the rosy lips of life and 
Flash'd the bar-^-grinning skeleton of 

death ! 
White was her cheek ; sharp breaths of 

anger puff'd 
Her fairy nostril out ; her hand half- 

clench'd 
Went faltering sideways downward to 

her belt, 
And feeling ; had she found a dagger 

there 
(For in a wink the false love turns to 

hate) 
She would have stabb'd him ; but she 

found it not : 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she 

took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way broken 

with sobs. 

" O crueller than was ever told in 

tale. 
Or sung in song ! O vainly lavished 

love ! 
O cruel, there was nothing wild or 

strange, 
Or seeming shameful, for what shame 

in love, 



300 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



' So love be true, and not as yours is — 

nothing 
Toor Vivien had not done to win his 

trust 
Who caird her what he cail'd her— 

all her crime, 
All— all— the wish to prove him wholly 

hers." 

She mused a little, and then clapt 
her hands 
Together with a wailing shriek, and 

said : 
" Stabb'd through the heart's affec- 
tions to the heart ! 
Sceth'd like the kid in its own mother's 
milk ! 
! H Kill'd with a word v.-orse than a life of 
^" blows ! 

I thought that he was gentle, being 
great : 

God, that I had loved a smaller 

man ! 

1 should have found in him a greater 

heart. [saw 

C), I, that flattering my true passion, 
The knights, the court', the king, dark 

in your light, 
Who loved to make men darker than 

they are, 
Because of that high pleasure which I 

had 
To seat you sole upon my pedestal 
Of worship — I am answer'd, and hence- 
forth 
The course of life that seem'd so 

flowery to mc 
With you for guide and master, only 

you, 
Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken 

short. 
And ending in a ruin — nothing left. 
But into some low cave to crawl, and 

there. 
If the wolf spare me, weep my life 

away, 
Kill'd with inutterable unkindliness." 

She paused, she turn'd away, she 
hung her head. 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, 
the braid 



Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept 

afresh. 
And the dark wood grew darker to- 
ward the storm 
In silence, while his anger slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, and half believed 

her true : 
Cail'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
" Come from the storm," and having 

no reply, , 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the 

face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or 

shame ; 
Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest- 

touching terms 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in 

vain. 
At last she let herself be conqtfer'd by 

him. 
And as the cageling newly flown re- 
turns, 
The seeming-injured simple-hearted 

thing 
Came to her old perch back, and set- 
tled there. 
There wdiile she sat, half-falling from 

his knees. 
Half-nestled at his heart, and since he 

saw 
The slow tear creep from her closed 

eyelid yet. 

Ablaut her, more in kindness than in 

love, [arm. 

The gentle wizard cast a shielding 

But she dislink'd herself at once and 

rose, 
Her arms upon her breast across, and 

stood 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply 

wrong' d, 
Upright and flush'd before him ; then 

she said : 
" There must be now no passages of 

love 
Betwixt us twain henceforward ever- 
more. 
Since, if I be what I am grossly cail'd, 
WHiat should be granted which your 
own gross heari 



IDYLS OF THE KING, 



301 



Would reckon worth the taking ? I ; 

will go. '• 

*In truth, but one thing now — better 

have died ! 

Thrice than have ask'd it once — could 

make me stay — 
That proof of trust — so often asked in 

vain ! : 

How justly, after that vile term of 

yours, 
I find with grief ! I might believe you | 

then, I 

Who knows ? once more. O, what I 

was once to me 1 

Mere matter of the fancy, now has { 

grown ' 

The vast necessity of heart and life. ! 
Farewell : think kindly of me, for I 

fear 
INIy fate or fault, omitting gayer youth 
For one 50 old, must be to love you 

still. 
But ere I leave you let me swear once 

more 
That if I schemed against your peace 

in this, 
i\[ayyon just heaven, that darkens o'er 

me, send 
One flash, that, missing all things else, 

may make 
IMy scheming brain a cinder, if I lie." 

Scarce had she ceased, v.'hen out of 

heaven a bolt 
(For now the storm was close above 

them) struck, 
Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining 
V\'ith darted spikes and splinters of 

the wood 
The dark earth round. He raised his 

eyes and saw 
The tree that shone white-listed thro' 

the gloom. 
But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard 

her oath. 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering 

fork, 
And deafen'd with the stammering 

cracks and claps 
That follow'd, flying back and crying 

out. 



" O INIcrlin, tho' you do not love me, 

save. 
Yet save me!" cluiig to him and 

hugg'd him close : 
And call'd him dear protector in her 

fright, 
Nor yet forgot her practice in her 

fright, 
But wrought upon his mood and hugg'd 

him close. 
The pale blood of the Vvizard at her 

touch 
Took gayer colors, like an opal warm'd 
She bfamed herself for telling hearsay 

tales : 
She shook from fear, and for her fault 

she wept 
Of petulancy ; she call'd him lord and 

liege. 
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of 

eve, 
Her God, her Merlin, the one pas- 
sionate love 
Of her whole life ; and ever overhead 
Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten 

branch 
Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 
Above them ; and in change of glare 

and gloom 
Her eyes and neck glittering went and 

came ; 
Till now the storm, its burst of passion 

spent. 
Moaning and calling out of other 

lands. 
Had left the ravaged woodland yet 

once more 
To peace ; and what should not have 

been had been, 
For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn, 
Had yielded, told her all the charm, 

and slept. 

Then, in one moment, she put forth 
the charm 
Of v.'oven paces and of waving hands, 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead. 
And lost to life and use and name and 
fame. 
Then crying " I have made his glory 
mine," 



w 



102 



IDYLS OF THE ICING. 



And shrieking out "O fool!" the 

harlot leapt 
Adown the forest, and the thicket closed 
Behind her, and the forest echo'd 

"fool." 



ELAINE. 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, 
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 
High in her chamber up a tower to the 

east 
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; 
^Yhich first she placed \yhere morn- 
ing's earliest ray 
Might strike it, and awake her with 

the gleam ; 
Then fearing rust or soilure, fashion'd 

for it 
A case of silk, and braided thereupon 
All the devices blazon'd on the shield 
In their own tinpt, and added, of her 

wit, / fj^^ 
A border fA^vfes^ of branch and flower, 
And yellow-throated nestling in the 

nest. 
Nor rested thus content, but day by 

day 
Leaving her household and good father 

climb'd 
That eastern tower, and entering barr'd 

her door, 
Stript off the case, and read the naked 

shield, 
Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his 

arms, 
Now made a pretty history to herself 
Of every dint a sword had beaten in 

it, 
And every scratch a lance had made 

upon it. 
Conjecturing when and v.here : this 

cut is fresh ; 
That ten years back ; this dealt him at 

Caerlyle ; 
That at Caerleon; this at Camelot : 
And ah, God's mercy, what a stroke 

was there ! 
And here a thrust that might have 



Broke the strong lance, and roU'd his 
enemy down, ' 

And saved him : so she lived in fan- 
tasy. 

How came the lily maid by that good 

shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n 

his name ? 
He left it with her, when he rode to 

tilt 
For the great diamond in the diamond 

jousts, 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by 

that name 
Had named them, since a diamond was 

the prize. 

For Arthur v.lien none knew from 

^^•hence he cam.e, 
Long ere the people chose him for 

their king. 
Roving the trackless realms of "Lyon- 

nesse, 
liad found a glen, gray boulder and 

black tarn. <>- ^i^^^iX -^ //, . 
A horror lived about the tarn, and 

clave 
Like its ovv'n mists to all the mountain 

side : 
For here two brothers, one a king, had 

met 
And fought together: but their names 

were lost. 
And each had slain his brother at :■, 

blow, 
And down they fell and made the glei^ 

abhorr'd : 
And there they lay till all their bones 

Avere bleached, 
And lichen'd into color with the crags: 
And he that once was king had on a 

crown 
Of diamonds, one in front, and four 

aside. 
And Arthur came, and laboring up the 

pass 
All in a misty moonshine, unawares 
Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, 

and the skuU 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



303 



Brake from the nape, and from the 

skull the crown 
Roll'd into light, and turning on its 

rims 
Fled like a glittering rivulet to the 

tarn : 
And down the shingly scauijie plunged, 

and caught, ' '^ u-^u^ \^' ::... 
And set it on his head, and in his 

heart 
Heard murmurs, *' Lo, thou likewise 

shalt be king." 

Thereafter, when a king, he had the 

gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd 

them to his knights. 
Saying "These jewels, whereupon I 

chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the 

king's — 
For public use : henceforward let there 

be. 
Once every year, a joust for one of 

these : 
For so by nine years' proof we needs 

must learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves 

shall grow 
In use of arms and manhood, till we 

drive 
The Heathen, who, some say, shall 

rule the land 
Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus 

he spoke : 
And eight years past, eight jousts had 

been, and still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the 

year, 
With purpose to present them to the 

Queen, 
When all were won.: but meaning all 

at once 
To snare her royal fancy with a boon^ 
Worth half her realm, had never 

spoken word. 

Now for the central diamond and 
the last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his 
court ~ 



Hard on the river nigh the place which 

now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a 

joust 
x\t Camelot, and when the time drew 

nigh 
Spake (for she had been sick) to Guine- 
vere, 
*' Are you so sick, my Queen, you can- 
not move 
To these fair jousts?" "Yea, lord," 

she said, " you know it." 
'• Then will you miss," he answer'd, 

" the great deeds 
Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the 

lists, 
A sight you love to look on." And 

the Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt lan- 
guidly 
On Lancelot, where he stood beside 

the King. 
He thinking that he read her meaning 

there, 
" Stay with me, I am sick ; my love is 

more 
Than many diamonds," yielded, and a 

heart 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the 

Queen 
(However much he yearn'd to make 

complete 
The tale of diamonds for his destined 

boon) 
Urged him to speak against the truth, 

and say 
" Sir King, mine ancient wound is 

hardly whole, 
And lets me from the saddle : " and 

the King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and went 

his way. 
No sooner gone than suddenly she 

began : 

" To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot 

much to blame. 
Why go you not to these fair jousts ? 

the knights 
Aie half of them our enemies/ and the 

crewel 



504 



IDYLS OF THE KING, 



Will murmur, lo the shameless ones, 

who take 
Their pastime now the trustful king is 

gone ! " 
Then Lancelot, vext at having lied in 

vain : 
•^ Are you so wise ? you were not 

once so wise, 
My Queen, that summer, when }-ou 

loved me first. 
Then of tlie crowd you took no more 

account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the 

mead, 
When its own voice clings to each 

blade of grass, 
And every voice is nothing. As to 

knights, 
Them Gurely can I silence with all ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow'd 
Of all men: many a bard, without 

offence, [lay. 

Has link'd our names together in his 
Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guin- 
evere, 
The pearl of beauty : and our knights 

at feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while 

the King 
Would listen smiling. How then t is 

there more ? 
Has Arthur spoken aught? or would 

yourself. 
Now \Yeary of my service and devoir. 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless 

lord .' " 

She broke into a little scornful laugh. 
" Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless 

King, 
That passionate perfection, mv good 

lord- 
But who can gaze upon the Sun in 

heaven .'' 
He never spake word of reproach to 

me, 
He never had a glimpse of mine un- 
truth. 
He cares not for me: only here to-day 
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his 
eyes; 



Some meddling rogue has tamper'd 

with him — else 
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 
And swearing men to vows impossible, 
To make them like himself: but, friend, 

to me 
He is all fault who hath no fault at all : 
For who loves me must have a touch of 

earth ; 
The low sun makes the color ; I am 

yours, 
Not Arthur's, as you know, save by 

the bond, 
And therefore hear my words : go to 

the jousts : 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break 

our dream 
When sweetest ; and the vermin 

voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, but 

thev sting." 



Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief ot 

knights, 
" And with what face, after my pretext 

made. 
Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 
Before a king who honors his own 

word, 
As if it were his God's ? '* 

" Yea," said the Queen, 
" A moral child without the craft to 

rule, 
Else had he not lost me : but listen to 

me, 
If I must find you wit : we hear it said 
That men go clown before your spear 

at a touch 
But knowing you are Lancelot; youi 

great name. 
This conquers : hide it therefore; go 

unknown : 
Win! by this kiss you will : and our 

true king 
Will then allow your pretext, O my 

knight. 
As all for glory; for to speak him true, 
You know right well, how meek so e'er 

he seem. 
No keener hunter after glorv breathes. 



IDYLS OF THE KIXG. 



305 



He loves it in his knights more than 

himself: 
They prove to him his work : win and 

return." 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to 

horse, 
Wroth at himself: not willing to be 

known, 
Pie left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, 
Chose the green path that show'd the 

rarer foot, 
And there among the solitary downs, 
P'ull often lost in fancy, lost his way ; 
Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd 

track. 
That all in loops and links among the 

dales 
Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 
Plred from the west, far on a hill, the 

towers. 
Thither he made and wound the gate- 
way horn, 
Then came an old, dumb, myriad- 
wrinkled man, 
Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. 
And Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless 

man ; 
And issuing found the Lord of Astolat 
With two strong sons, Sir Torre and 

Sir Lavaine, 
Moving to meet him in the castle 

court ; 
And close behind them stept the lily 

maid 
Elaine, his daughter: mother of the 

house 
There was not : some light jest among 

them rose 
With laughter dying down as the great 

knight 
Approach'd them : then the lord of 

Astolat, 
" Whence comest thou, my guest, and 

by what name 
Livest between the lips ? for by thy 

state 
And presence I might guess thee chief 

of those. 
After the king, who eat in Arthur's 

halls. 



Him have I seen : the rest, his Table 
Round, 

Known as they are, to me they are un- 
known."' 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of 

knights, 
" Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, 

and known. 
What I by mere mischance have 

brought, my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one unknown 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me 

not; 
Hereafter you shall know me — and the 

shield — 
I pray you lend me one, if such you 

have. 
Blank, or at least with some device not 

mine." 

Then ^a'd the Lord of Astolat, j 
Here is Torre's: ..rt,/. ■;J^ .r.,A^-\ 



Hurt in his first tilt \fSs my soi^. Sir 
Torre. 



And, so, God wot, his shield is blank 

enough. 
His you can have." Then added plain 

Sir Torre, 
" Yea since I cannot use it, you may 

have it." 
Here laugh'd the father, saying, " Fie, 

Sir Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight ? 
Allow him: but Lavaine my younger 

here. 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in ah 

hour 
And set it in this damsel's golden hair 
To make her thrice as wilful as be- 
fore." 

" Nay, father, nay, good father, shame 

me not 
Before this noble knight," said young 

Lavaine, 
*' For nothing. Surely I but play'd on 

Torre : 
He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not 

go: 



3o6 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



A jest, no more : for, knight, the 

maiden dreamt 
That some one put this diamond in her 

hand, 
And that it was too slippery to be held, 
And slipt and fell into some pool or 

stream, 
The castle-well, belike : and then I said 
That i/l went and z/1 fought and won 

it 
(But all was jest a;nd joke among our- 
selves) 
Then must she keep it safelier. All 

was jest. 
But father give me leav.e, an if he will, 
To ride to Camelot with this noble 

knight : 
Win shall I not, but do my best to win : 
Young as I am, yet would I do my 

best." 

" So you will grace me," answer'd 
Lancelot, 

Smiling a moment, " with your fellow- 
ship 

O'er these waste downs whereon I lost 
myself, 

Then were I glad of you as "guide and 
friend ; [hear, 

And you shall win this diamond — as I 

It is a fair large diamond, — if you may, 

And yield it to this maiden, if you 
will." 

" A fair large diamond," added plain 
Sir Torre, 

" Such be for Queens and not for sim- 
ple maids." 

Then she, who held her eyes upon the 
ground, 

Elaine, and heard her name so tost 
about, 

Flush'd slightly at the slight disparage- 
mient 

Before the stranger knight, who, look- 
ing at her, 

Full courtly, yet v.ot falsely, thus re- 
turn'd : 

" If what is fair be but for what is fair, 

And only Queens are to be counted so, 

Rash were my judgment then, who 
deem this maid 



Might wear as fair a jewel as is on 

earth, 
Not violating the bond of like "to like." 

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid 
Elaine, 

Won by the mellow voice before she 
look'd. 

Lifted her eyes, and read his linea- 
ments. 

The great and guilty love he bare the 
Queen, 

In battle with the love he bare his 
lord, 

Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere 
his time. 

Another sinning on such heighls wilh 
one, 

The flower of all the west and all the 
world, 

Had been the sleeker for it : but in 
him 

His mood was often like a fiend, and 
rose 

And drove him into wastes ar.d soli- 
tudes 

For agony, who was yet a living soul. 

Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the good- 
liest man 

That ever among ladies ate in Hall, 

And noblest, when she lifted up hex 
eyes. 

However marr'd, of more than twice 
her years, 

Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on 
the cheek, 

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted u^; 
hsr eyes 

And loved him, with that love which 
was her doom. 

Then the great knight, the darling 

of the court. 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude 

hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half 

disdain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, 
But kindly man moving among his 

kind; 
Whom they with meats and vintage of 

their best 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



307 



And talk and minstrel melody enter- 

tain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and 

Table Round, 
And ever well and readily answer'd he : 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless 

man, 
Heard from the Baron that, ten years 

before, , 
The heathen caught and reft him of his 

tongue, 
" He learnt and warn'd me of their 

fierce design 
Against my house, and him they caught 

and maim'd : 
But I, my sons, and little daughter fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt among 

the woods 
By the great river in a boatman's hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good 

Arthur broke 
The Pagan yet once more on Badon 

hill." 

" O there, good Lord, doubtless," 

Lavaine said, rapt 
By all the sweet and sudden passion of 

youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, " you 

have fought. 
O tell us ; for we live apart, you know : 
Of Arthur's glorious wars." And 

Lancelot spoke 
And ansv.-er'd him at full, as having 

been [long 

With Arthur in the fight which all day 
Rang by the white mouth of the violent 

Glem ; 
And in the four wild battles by the 

shore 
Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the 

war 
That thunder'd in and out the gloomy 

skirts 
Of Celidon the forest ; and again 
By castle Gurnion, where the glorious 

King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's 

Head, 



Carved of one emerald, centred in a 

sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he 

breathed ; 
And at Caerleon had he help'd his lord, 
When the strong neighings of the wild 

white Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agned Cathregonion too, 
And down the waste sand-shores of 

Trath Treroit, 
Where many a heathen fell ; " and on 

the mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table 

Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and 

him. 
And break them ; and I saw him, after- 
stand 
High on a heap of slain, from spur to 

plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen 

blood. 
And seeing me, with a great voice he 

cried, 
' They are broken, they are broken,' for 

the King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor 

cares 
For triumph in our mimic wars, the 

jousts — 
For if his own knight cast him down, he 

laughs 
Saying, his knights are better men than 

' he — 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of God 
Fills him ; I never saw his like ; there 

lives 
No greater leader." 

While he utterd this. 
Low to her own heart said the lily 

maid, 
" Save your great self, fair^lord ; "' and 

when he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleasantry 
Being mirthful he but in a stately kind — 
She still took note that when the living 

smile 
Died from his lips, across him came a 

cloud 



3o8 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Of melancholy severe, from which 

again, 
Whenever in her hovering to and fro 
The lily maid had striven to make him 

cheer. 
There brake a sudden-beaming tender- 
ness 
Of manners and of nature : and she 

thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, for 

her, 
And all night long his face before her 

lived. 
As when a painter, poring on a face, 
Divinely thro' all hinderance finds the 

man 
Behind it, and so paints him that his 

face, 
The shape and color of a mind and life, 
Lives for his children, ever at its best 
And fullest ; so the face before her 

lived, [full 

Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, 
Of noble things, and held her from her 

sleep. 
Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the 

thought 
She needs must bid farewell to sweet 

Lavaine. 
First as in fear, step after step, she 

stole, ^ -^ 

Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating : 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in 

the court, 
" This shield, my friend, where is it ? " 

and Lavaine 
Past inward, as she came from out the 

tower. 
There to his proud horse Lancelot 

turn'd, and smooth'd 
The glossv shoulder, humming to him- 
self. ' 
Half-envious of the flattering hand, she 

drew . 
Nearer and stood. lie look'd, and 

more amazed 
Than if seven men had set Upon him, 

saw 
The maiden standing in the deWy light. 
He had not dreamecl she was so beauti- 
ful. 



Then came on him a sort of sacred fear. 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she 

stood 
Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. 
Suddenly flashed on her a wild desire. 
That he should wear her favor at the 

tilt. 
She braved a riotous heart in asking 

for it. 
" Fair lord, whose name I know not — 

noble it is, 
I well believe, the noblest — will you 

wear 
My favor at this tourney ">. " " Nay,'- 

said he, 
" Fair lady, since I never yet have 

worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists. 
Such is my wont, as those, who know 

me, know." 
" Yea, so," she answer'd ; " then in 

wearing mine 
Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble 

lord, 
That those who know should know 

you." And he turn'd 
Her counsel up and down within his 

mind, 
And found it true, and answer'd, 

*' True, my child. 
Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to me : 
What is it } " and she told him " a red 

sleeve 
Broider'd with pearls," and brought it : 

then he bound 
Her token on his helmet, with a smile 
Saying, " I never yet have done so 

much 
For any maiden living," and the blood 
Sprang to her face, and fill'd her with 

delight ; 
But left her all the paler, when Lavaine 
Returning brought the yet unblazon'd 

shield, ' [celot, 

His brother's ; which he gave to Lan- 
Who parted with his own to fair 

Elaine ; 
" Do me this grace, my child, to have 

my shield 
In keeping till I come." " A grace to 

me,' 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



[09 



She answer'd, " twice to-day. I am your 

Squire." 
Wliereat Lavaine said; laughing, 

" Lily maid, 
For fear our people call you lily maid 
In earnest, let me bring your color 

back ; 
Once, twice, and thrice : now get you 

hence to bed : " 
So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his own 

hand, 
And thus they moved away : she stay'd 

a minute. 
Then made a sudden step to the gate, 

and there — 
Her bright hair blown about the serious 

face 
Vet rosy-kindled with her brother's 

kiss — 
Paused in the gateway, standing by the 

shield 
In silence, while she watch'd their arms 

far off 
Sparkle, until they dipt below the 

downs. 
Then to her tower she climb'd, and 

took the shield. 
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 



\ 



leanwhile the nev/ companions past 

away 
Far o'er the long backs of the bushless 

downs, 
To where Sir Lancelot knew there 

lived a knight 
Not far from Camel ot, now for forty 

years 
A he'rmit, who had pray'd, labor'd and 

pray'd 
And ever laboring had scoop'd himself 
In the white rock a chapel and a hall 
On massive columns, like ashorecliff 

cave, 
And cells and chambers : all were fair 

and dry ; ^ 

The green light from the meadows 

underneath 
Struck up and lived along the milky 

roofs ; 
And in the meadows tremulous aspen- 
trees 



And poplars m.ade a noise of falling 

showers. 
And thither wending there- that night 

they bode. 

But when the next day broke from 

underground, 
And shot red fire and shadows thro' 

the cave. 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and 

rode a-way: 
Then Lancelot saying, " Hear, but hold 

my name 
Hidden, vou ride with Lancelot of the 

Lake." 
Abashed Lavaine, whose instant rev- 
erence. 
Dearer to true young hearts than their 

own praise, 
But left him leave to stammer, " Is it 

indeed ? " 
And after muttering "the great Lance- 
lot ^' 
At last he got his breath and answer'd, 

" One, 
One have I seen — that other, our liege 

lord. 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's king of 

kings, 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously, 
He will be there — then were I stricken 

blind 
That minute, I might say that I had 

seen," 

So spake Lavaine, and when they 

reach'd the lists 
By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes 
Run thro' the peopled gallery which 

half round 
Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the grass, 
Until they found the clear-faced King, 

who sat ' /^ 
Robed in red samite, easily to be known, 
Since to his crown the golden dragon 

clung. 
And down his robe the dragon writhed 

in gold. 
And from the carven-work behind him 

crept ^ \. i-ij ,,..>.. ^ti. .: 
Two dragons gilded, sloping down to 

make 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Arms for his chair, while all the rest 
of them. 

Thro' knots 'and loops and folds innu- 
merable 

Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they 
found 

The new design wherein they lost 
themselves, 

^'et with all ease, so tender was the 
work : 

And in the costly canopy o'er him set, 

Blazed the last diamond of the name- 
less king. 

Then Lancelot answer'd young La- 

vaine and said, 
" Me you call great : mine is the firmer 

seat, 
The truer lance : but there is many a 

youth 
Now crescent, who will come to all I 

am 
And overcome it; and in me there 

dwells 
No greatness, save it be some far-off 

touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not 

great : 
There is the man." And Lavaine 

gaped upon him 
As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew ; and then did 

either side, 
They that assailed, and they that held 

the lists. 
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly 

move, [ously 

INIeet in the midst, and there so furi- 
Shock, that a man far-off might well 

perceive. 
If any man that day were left afield, 
The hard earth shake, and a low thun- 
der of arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 
Which were the weaker : then he hurl'd 

into it [speak 

Against the stronger : little need to 
Of Lancelot in his glory : King, duke, 

earl, 
Count, baron — whom he smote, he over- 
threw. 



But in the field were Lancelot's kith 

and kin,. 
Ranged with the Table Round that 

held the lists, 
Strong men, and wrathful that a stran- 
ger knight 
Should do and almost overdo the deeds 
Of Lancelot ; and one said to the other, 

"Lo ! 
What is he ? I do not mean the force 

alone, 
The grace and versatility of the man — 
Is it not Lancelot ! " " When has 

Lancelot worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists ? 
Not such his wont, as we, that know 

him, know." 
'' How then ? who then ? " a fury seized 

on them, 
A fiery family passion for the name 
Of Lancelot, and a glory one widi 

theirs. 
They couch'd their spears and prick'd 

their steeds and thus, 
Their plumes driv'n backward by tlie 

wind they made 
In moving, all together down upon him 
Bare, as a wild wave in the wild North 

sea, 
Green-glimmering towards the summit, 

bears, with all 
Its stormy crests that smote against the 

skies, [bark, 

Down on a bark, and overbears the 
And him that helms it, so they over- 
bore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a 

spear 
Down-glancing lamed the charger, and 

a spear l^,A..xid^ 

Prick'd sharply his own cuiraeS, and 

the head 
Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, 

and remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and wor- 

shipfully ; 
He bore a knight of old repute to the 

earth, 
And brought his horse to Lancelot 

where he lay. 



IDYLS OF THE KING, 



311 



He up the side, sweating with agon}', 

got. 
But thought to do while he might yet 

endure 
And being lustily holpen by the rest, 
His party, — tho' it seemed half -mir- 
acle 
To those he fought with — drave his 

kith and kin, 
And all the Table Round that held the 

lists. 
Back to the barrier; theii the heralds 

blew 
Proclaiming his the prize, who wore 

the sleeve 
Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the 

knights. 
His party, cried " Advance, and take 

your prize 
The diamond ; " but he answer'd, 

" Diamond me 
No diamonds ! for God's love, a little 

air! 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is 

death ! 
Hence will I and I charge you, follow 

me not." 

He spoke, and vanished suddenly 

from the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar 

grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, 

and sat, 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, " Draw the 

lance-head : " 
" Ah, my sweet lord, Sir Lancelot," 

said Lavaine, 
" I dread me, if I draw it, you will die." 
But he, " I die already with it : draw — 
Draw " — and Lavaine drew, and that 

other gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly 

groan. 
And half his blood burst forth, and 

down he sank 
For the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd 

away. 
Then came the hermit oiit and bare 

him in, ^(« f . ^'6-.v 'y Ur ' X 
There stanch'd his wound ; and there, 

in daily doubt 



Whether to live or die, for many a 

week 
Hid from the wide world's rumor by 

the grove 
Of poplars with their noise of falling 

showers, :; : ■ .'^^ 
And ever-tremulous "aspeTPtree?, he lay. 

But on that day when Lancelt^t fled 
the lists, 

His party, knights of utm.ost North and 
West, • 

Lords of waste marches, kings of deso- 
late isles. 

Came round their great Pendragon, 
saying to him, 

" Lo, Sire, our knight thro' whom we 
won the day 

Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left 
his prize 

Untaken, crying that his prize is death." 

" Heaven hinder," said the King, " that 
such an one, 

So great a knight as we have seen to- 
day — 

He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 

Yea, twenty times I thought him 
Lancelot — 

He must not pass uncared for. Gawain, 
rise, 

My nephew, and ride forth and find 
the knight. 

Wounded and wearied, needs must he 
be near. [horse, 

I charge you that you get at once to 

And, knights and kings, there breathes 
not one of you 

Will deem this prize of ours is rashly 
given : 

His prowess was too wondrous. We 
will do him 

No customary honor : since the knight 

Came not to us, of us to claim the 
prize. 

Ourselves will send it after. Where- 
fore take 

This diamond, and deliver it, and re- 
turn. 

And bring us what he is and how he 
fares. 

And cease not from your quest, until 
you find." 



,12 



IDYLS OF THE KIXG. 



So saying, from the carven flo\ver 

above, 
To which it made a restless heart, he 

took, 
And gave, the diamond: then from 

where he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face 

arose. 
With smiling face and frowning heart, 

a Prince 
In the mid might and flourish of his 

May, 
Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair 

and strong. 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and 

Geraint 
And Lamorack, a good knight, but 

therewithal 
vSir Modred's brother, of a crafty house, 
Nor often loyal to his word, and now 
Wroth that the king's command to sally 

forth 
In quest of whom he knew not, made 

him leave 
The banquet, and concourse of knights 

and kings. 

So all in wrath he got to horse and 
went ; 

While Arthur to the banquet, dark in 
mood, 

Past, thinking, " Is it Lancelot who has 
come 

Despite the wound he spake of, all for 
gain 

Of glor)', and has added wound to 
wound. 

And ridd'n away to die?" So fear'd 
the King, 

And, after two days' tarriance there, re- 
turn' d. 

Then when he saw the Queen, em- 
bracing, ask'd 

" Love, are you yet so sick ? " " Nay, 
Lord," she said. 

" And where is Lancelot ? " Then the 
Queen, amazed, 

" Was he not with you ? won he nt t 
your prize ? " 

" Nay, but one like him." " Why that 
like was he." 



And wl>en the King demanded how she 

knew. 
Said, " Lord, no sooner had you parted 

from us. 
Than Lancelot told me of a common 

talk 
That men went down before his spear 

at a touch. 
But knowing he was Lancelot ; his 

great name 
Conquer'd ; and therefore would he 

hide his name 

11 all m€ 

this end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering 

wound. 
That he migh jou unknown of all, 

and learn 
If his old prowess were in aught de 

cay'd : 
And added, * Our true Arthur, when he 

learns. 
Will well allow my pretext, as for gain 
Of purer glory.' " 

Then replied the King : 
" Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it 

.. been, 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth. 
To have trusted me as he has trusted 

you. 
Surely his king and most familiar 

friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, 

indeed, 
Albeit I know my knights fantastical, 
So fine a fear ir our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter ; 

now remains [kin— 

But little cause for laughter : his own 
111 news, my Queen, for all who love 

him, these ! 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set 

upon him ; 
So that he went sore wounded from 

the field : 
Yet good news too : for goodly hopes 

are mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely 

heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his 
\ helm 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Z-'Z 



A sleeve of scarlet, broidercd with 

great pearls, 
Some gentle maiden's gift." 

" Yea, lord," she said. 
Your hopes are mine," and saying 

that she choked. 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her 

face. 
Moved to her chamber, and there 

flung herself 
Down on the great King's conch, and 

writhed upon it. 
And clench'd her fingers till they bit 

the palm. 
And shriek'd out " traitor " to the un- 

hearing v/all, 
Thenflash'd in"o wild tears, and rose 

again, 
And moved about her palace, proud and 

pale. 

Gawain the while thro' all the region 

round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of the 

quest, [grove, 

Touch'd at all points, except the poplar 
And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat : 
Whom glittering in enamell'd arms 

the maid 
Glanced at, and cried, " What nev/s 

from Camelot, lord ? 
What of the knight with the red 

sleeve ?" " He won." 
" I knew it," she said. " But parted 

from the jousts 
Hurt in the side," whereat she caught 

her breath. 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp 

lance go; 
Thereon she smote her hand : well- 
nigh she swoon'd : 
And while he gazed v/onderingly at her, 

came 
The lord, of Astolat out, to whom the 
\ Prince 
Reported who he v.-as, and on what 

quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could 

not find 
The victor, but had ridden wildly 

round 



To seek him, and was wearied of the 

search. 
To whom the lord of Astolat, " Bide 

with us. 
And ride no longer wildly, noble 

Prince. 
Here was the knight, and here he left a 

shield ; 
This will he send or come for: further- 
more 
Our son is with him ; we shall hear 

anon. 
Needs must we hear." To this the 

courteous Prince 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy. 
Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it. 
And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on fair 

Elaine : 
Where could be found face daintier .'' 

then her shape 
From forehead down to foot perfect — 

again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely 

turn'd : 
"Well— if I bide, lo! this wild flower 

for me ! " 
And oft they met among the garden 

yews. 
And there he set himself to play upon 

her 
With sallying wit, free flashes from a 

height 
Above her, graces of the court, and 

songs. 
Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden elo- 
quence ;^^-v..C fLA-^b'-i-. 
And amorous adulation; till the r^id 
Rebell'd against it, saying to him, 

" Prince, 
O loyal nephew of our noble King, 
Whv ask you not to see the shield he 

left, 
Whence you might learn his name ? 

Why slight your King, 
And lose the quest he sent you on, and 

prove 
No surer than our falcon yesterday. 
Who lost the hern v, e slipt him at, and 

went '^^^*'^- 
To all the winds.?" "Nay, by mine 

head," said he. 



3^4 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



" I lose it, as %ve lose the lark in hea- 
ven, 

damsel, in the light of your blue 

eyes ; 
But an you will it let me see the shield." 
And when the shield \Yas brought, and 

Gawain saw ^^^r',*.. 
Sir Lancelot's azurfe lions, crown'd with 

gold, 
Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh 

and mock'd : 
" Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! 

that true man! " 
" And right was I," she answer'd mer- 
rily, " I, 
Who dream'd mv knight the greatest 

knight of all'." 
" And if / dream'd," said Gawain, 

" that you love 
This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, 

you know it ! 
Speak therefore : shall I waste myself 

in vain ? " 
Full simple was her answer : " What 

know I .'' 
My brethren have been a'll my fellow- 
ship, 
And I, when often they have talk'd of 

love, , 

Wish'd it had been mv mother, for they 

talk'd, 
Meseem'd, of what they knew not; so 

myself — 

1 know not if I know what true love is, 
But if I know, then, if I love not him, 
Methinks there is none other I can 

love," 
"Yea, by God's death," said he, "you 

love him well, 
But would not, knew you what all 

others know, 
And whom he loves." . " So be it," 

cried Elaine, 
And lifted her fair face and moved 

away : 
But he pursued her calling, *■ Stav a 

little! 
One golden minute's grace : he wore 

your sleeve : 
Would he break faith with one I may 

not name ? 



Must our true man change like a leaf 

at last } 
May it be so ? why then, far be it from 

me 
To cross our mighty Lancelot in his 

loves ! 
And, damsel, for I deem you know full 

well 
Where your great knight is hidden, let 

me leave 
My quest with you : the diamond also: 

here ! 
For if you love, it will be sweet to give 

it; 
And if he love, it will be sweet to have 

it 
From your own hand ; and whether h» 

loves or not, 
A diamond is a diamond. Fare you 

well 
A thousand times ! — a thousand times 

farewell ! [two 

Yet, if ]ie love, and his love hold, we 
May meet at court hereafter : there, I 

" think. 
So you will learn the courtesies of the 

court, 
We two shall know each other." 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which 

he gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the 

quest [went 

Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past ; there 
told the King 

What the King knew, " Sir Lancelot is 
the knight." 

And added, " Sire, my liege, so much 
I learnt ; 

But fail'd to find him tho' I rode all 
round 

The region : but I lighted on the maid, 

Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves him; 
and to her, 

Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, 

I gave the diamond : she will render it; 

For by mine head she knows his hid- 
ing place." 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



5^5 



The seldom-frowning King frown'd, 
and replied, 

" Too courteous truly ! you shall go no 
more 

On quest of mine, seeing that you for- 
get 

Obedience is t-he courtesy due to 
kings." 

He spake and parted. Wroth but 
all in awe, 

For twenty strokes of the blood, with- 
out a word, 

Linger'd that other, staring after him ; 

Then shook his hair, strode off, and 
buzz'd abroad 

About the maid of Astolat, and her 
love. 

All ears were prick'd at once, all 
tongues were loosed ; 

•' The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lance- 
lot, 

Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Asto- 
lat." 

Some read the King's face, some the 
Queen's, and all 

Had marvel what the maid might be, 
but most 

Predoom'd her as unv\"orthy. One old 
dame 

Came suddenly on the Queen with the 
sharp news. 

She, that had heard the noise of it be- 
fore, 

But sorrowing Lancelot should have 
stoop'd so low, 

Jklarr'd her friend's point with pale 
tranquillity. 

So- ran the tale like fire about the 
court, 

Fire in dry stubble a nine days' wonder 
flared: 

Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice 
or thrice 

Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the 
Queen, 

And pledging Lancelot and the lily 
maid 

Smiled at each olhcr, while the Queen 
who sat 

With lips severely placid felt the knot 



Climb in her. throat, and with her feet 

unseen 
Crush'd the wild passion out against 

the floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats 

became . 
As wormwood, and she hated all who 

pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept 
The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her 

heart. 
Crept to her father, while he mused 

alone, 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face 

and said, 
" Father, you call me wilful, and the 

fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and 

now. 
Sweet father, v>ill you let me lose my 

wits ? " 
"Nay," said he, "surely." "Where- 
fore let me hence," 
She answer'd " and find out our dear 

Lavaine." 
''You will not lose your wits for dear 

Lavaine : 
Bide," ansv.-er"d he : " we needs must 

hear anon 
Of him, and of that other.'' "Ay," she 

said, 
"And of that other, for I needs must 

hence 
And find that other, wheresoe'er he be, 
And with mine own hand give his dia- 
mond to him, 
Lest I be found as faithless in the 

quest 
As yon proud Prince.who left the quest 

to me. 
Sweet father, I behold him in my 

dreams 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- 
self. 
Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's 

aid. 
The gentler-born the maiden, the more 

bound, 
Mv father, to be sweet and serviceable 



3i6 



IDYLS OF THE A'LVG. 



To noble knights in sickness, as you 

know, 
When these have worn their tokens: 

let me hence, 
I pray you." Then her father nodding 

said, 
"Ay, ay, the diamond: wit you well, 

my child, 
Right fain were I to learn this knight 

were whole. 
Being our greatest : yea, and you must 

give it — 
And sure I think this fruit is hung too 

high 
For any mouth to gape for save a 

Queen's — 
Nay, i mean nothing ; so then, get you 

' gone, 
Being so very wilful you must go." 

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt 

away. 
And while she made her ready for her 

ride. 
Her father's latest word humm'd in her 

ear, 
*' Being so very wilful you must go," 
And changed itself and echoed in her 

heart, 
*' Being so very wilful you must die." 
But she was happy enough and shook 

it off. 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes at 

us; 
And in her heart she answer'd it and 

said, 
" What matter, so I help him back to 

life ? " 
Then far away with goocl Sir Torre for 

guide 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bush- 
less downs 
To Camel ot, and before the city-gates 
Came on her brother with a happy face 
Making a roan horse caper and curvet 
For pleasure all about a field of 

flowers : 
Whom when she saw, " Lavaine," she 

cried, *' Lavaine. 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot ? " 

He amazed, 



" Torre and Elaine ! why here ? Sir 

Lancelot ! 
How know you my lord's name is 

Lancelot)" 
But when the maid had told him all 

her tale, 
Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in 

his moods 
Left them, and under the strange- 

statued gate. 
Where Arthur's wars were render'd 

mystically, 
Past up the still rich city to his kin, 
His own far blood, which dwelt at 

Camelot ; 
And her Ivavaine across the poplar 

grove 
Led to the caves : there first she saw 

the casque 
Of Lancelot on the wall ; her scarlet 

sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls 

away, 
Stream'd from it still ; and in her heart 

she laugh'd, 
Because he had not loosed it from his 

helm. 
But meant once more perchance to 

tourney in it. 
And when they gain'd the cell in which 

he slept. 
His battle-writhen arms and mighty 

hands 
Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a 

dream 
Of dragging down his enemy made 

them move. 
Then she that saw him lying unsleek, 

unshorn, [self, 

Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- 
Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry. 
The sound not wonted in a place so 

still 
Woke the sick knight, and while he 

roll'd his eyes 
Yet blank from sleep, she started to 

him, saying, 
" Your prize the diamond sent you by 

the King : " 
His eyes glisten'd: she fancied " is it 

for me ? ^ 



IDYLS 01' THE KINC. 



317 



And when the maid had told him all 

the tale 
Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, 

the quest 
Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she 

knelt 
Full lowly by the corners of his bed, 
And laid the diamond in his open 

hand. 
Her face was near, and as we kiss the 

child 
That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd 

her face. 
At once she slipt like water to the 

floor. 
"Alas," he said, "your ride has 

wearied you. 
Rest must yoil have." " No rest for 

me," she said ; 
" Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at 

rest." 
What might she mean by that .' his 

large black eyes, 
Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt 

upon her. 
Till all her heart's sad secret blazed 

itself 
In the heart's colors on her simple 

face; 
And Lancelot look'd and was perplext 

in mind, 
And being weak in body said no more ; 
But did not love the color; woman's 

love, 
Save one, he not regarded, and so 

turn'd 
Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he 

slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' 

the fields. 
And past beneath the wildly-sculptured 

gates 
Far up the dim rich city to her kin ; 
There bode the night ; but woke with 

dawn, and past 
Down thro' the dim rich city to the 

fields, 
Thence to the cave : so day by day ."sjie 

past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 



Gliding, and every day she tended him, 
And likewise manvanight: and Lance- 
lot 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little 
hurt 
I Whereof he should be quickly \vhole, 
at times 



seem 
Uncourteous, even he : but the meek 

maid 
Sweetly forbore him ever, bemg to him 
Meeker than any child to a rough 

nurse. 
Milder than any mother to a sick child, 
And never woman vet, since man's first 

fall, 
Did kindlier unto m.an, but her deep 

love 
Upbore her; till the hermit, skili'd in 

all 
The simples and the science of that 

time, 
Told him that her fine care had saved 

his life. 
And the sick man forgot her simple 
I blush. 

Would call her friend and sister, sweet 
I Elaine, 

! W^ould listen for her coming and 
j regret 

Her parting step, and held her ten- 
! derl5'v 

] And loved her with all love except the 
\ love 

j Of man and woman when they love 
' their best 

, Closest and sweetest, and had died the 
I death 

\ In any knightly fashion for her sake. 
j And peradventure had he seen her 
I first 

; She misfht have made this and that 



other world 
Another world for the sick man ; but 

now 
The shackles of an old love straiten'd 

him. 
His honor rooted in dishonor stood. 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely 

true. 



31' 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Yet the great knight in his mid-sick- 
ness made 
Full many a holy vow and pure re- 
solve. 
These, as but born of sickness, could 

not live : 
For when the blood ran lustier in him 

again, 
Full often the sweet image of one face, 
Making a treacherous quiet in his 

heart, 
Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while that ghostly 

grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he an- 

swer'd not, 
Or short and coldly, and she knew right 

well 
What the rough sickness meant, bu^ 

what this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd 

her sight, 
And drave her ere her time across the 

fields 
Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd, " Vain, in vain : it can- 
not be. 
He will not love me : how then? must 

Idle.?" 
Then as a little helpless innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few 

notes, [o'er 

Will sing the simple passage o'er and 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 
Went half the night repealing, " Must 

Idle?" 
And now to right she turn'd, and now 

to left. 
And found no ease in turning or in 

rest ; 
And- "him or death" she mutter'd, 

"death or him," 
Again and like a burthen, " him or 

death." 



But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt 
was whole, 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arravin 
sweet self 



In that wherein she deem'd she look'd 

her best. 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she 

thought 
" If I be loved, these are my festal robes 
If not, the victim's flovrers before he 

fall." 
And Lancelot ever prest upon the 

maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift 

of him 
For her own self or hers; "and do 

not shun 
To speak the wish most near to your 

true heart ; 
Such service have you done nic, that I 

make 
My will of yours, and Prince and Lord 

am I 
In mine own land, and what I will 

I can." 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her 

face, 
But like a ghost Avithout the power to 

speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld 

her wish. 
And bode among them yet a little 

space. 
Till he should learn it ; and one morn 

it chanced 
He found her in among the garden 

yews. 
And said, "Delay no longer, speak 

your wish, 
Seeing I must go to-day : " then out 

she brake ; 
" Going t and we shall never see you 

more. 
And I must die for want of one bold 

word." 
'"^Speak: that I live to hear," he said, 

" is yours." 
Then suddenly and passionately she 

spoke : 
" I have gone mad. I love you : let 

me die." 
" Ah sister," answer'd Lancelot, " what 
j is this .'' " 

3 her I And innocently extending her white 
arms, 



IDYLS OP THE KING. 



319 



" Your love," she said, "your love — to 

be your wife." 
And Lancelot answer'd, '* Had I chos'n 

to wed, 
I had been wedded earlier, sweet 

Elaine : 
.But now there never will be wife of 

mine." 
" No, no," she cried, " I care not to be 

wife, [face. 

But to be with you still, to see your 
To serve you, and to follow you thro' 

the world." 
And Lancelot answer'd, "Nay, the 

world, the world, 
All ear ' and ey^;, with such a stupid 

heart 
To interpret ear and eye, and such a 

tongue 
To blare its own interpretation — nay. 
Full ill then should I quit your 

brother's love, 
And your good father's kindness." 

And she said, 
" Not to be with you, not to see your 

face, 
Alas for me then, my good days are 

done." 
" Nay, noble maid," he answer'd, "ten 

times nay ! 
This is not love : but love's first flash 

in youth. 
Most common : yea, I know it of mine 

own self : 
And you yourself will smile at your 

own self 
Hereafter, when you yield your flower 

of life 
To one more fitly yours, not thrice 

your age : 
And then will I, for true you are and 

sweet 
Beyond mine old belief in womanhood. 
More specially should your good knight 

be poor. 
Endow you with broad land and ter- 
ritory 
Even to the half my realm beyond the 

seas, 
So that would make you happy; fur- 
thermore, 



Ev'n to the death, as tho' you were 

my blood. 
In all your quarrels will I be your 

knight. 
This will I do, dear damsel, for your 

sake, 
And more than this I cannot." 

While he spolce 
She neither blush'd nor shook, but 

deathly pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then 

replied, 
" Of all this will I nothing ; " and so 

fell. 
And thus they bore her swooning to 

her tower. 



Then spake, to whom thro' those 
black walls of yew 

Their talk had pierced, her father, 
"Ay, a flash, 

I fear me, that will strike my blossom 
dead. 

Too courteous are you, fair Lord Lan- 
celot. 

I pray you, use some rough discourtesy 

To blunt or break her passion." 

Lancelot said, 

" That were against me ; what I can I 
will ; " 

And there that day remained, and to- 
ward even 

Sent for his shield: full meekly rose 
the maid, 

Stript off the case, and gave the naked 
shield ; 

Then, when she heard his horse upon 
the stones, 

Unclasping flung the casement back, 
and look'd 

Down on his helm, from which her 
sleeve had gone. 

And Lancelot knew the little clinking 
sound : 

And she by tact of love was well 
aware 

That Lancelot knew that she was look- 
ing at him. 

And yet he glanced not up, nor waved 
his hand, 



3io 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode 

away. 
This was the one discourtesv that he 



So in her tower alone the maiden 

sat : 
His very shield was gone : only the 

case, 
Her own poor work, her empty labor, 

left. 
But still she heard him, still his picture 

form'd 
And grew between her and the pic- 
tured wall. 
Then came her father, saying in low 

tones, 
"Have comfort,*' wliom she greeted 

quietly. 
Then came her brethren saying, " Peace 

to thee, 
Sweet sister," whom she answer'd with 

all calm. 
But when they left her to herself 

again, 
Death, like a friend's voice from a dis- 
tant field 
Approaching thro' the darkness,called; 

the owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she 

mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted 

glooms 
Of evening, and the meanings of the 

wind. 

And in those days she made a little 

song, 
And call'd her song "The Song of 

Love and Death," 
And sang it: sweetly could she make 

and sing. 

" Sweet is true love, tho' given in 

vain, in vain ; 
And sweet is death who puts an end to 

pain : 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter 
death must be ; 



Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death 
to me. 

Love, if death be sweeter, let me 

die. 

" Sweet Love, that seems not made 
to fade away, 
Sweet death, that seems to make us 
loveless cla}', 

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not L 

" I fain would follow love, if that 

could be : 
I needs must follow death, who calls 

for me ; 
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me 

die." 

High with the last line scaled her 

voice, and this, 
All in a fiery dawning wild with wind 
That shook her tower, the brothers 

heard, and thought 
With shuddering, " Hark the Phantom 

of the house 
That ever shrieks before a death," and 

call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and 

fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the blood-red light 

of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling " Let 

me die ! " 

As when we dwell upon a word we 

know. 
Repeating, till the word we know so 

well 
Becomes a wonder and we know not 

why, 
So dwelt the father on her face ar.d 

thought 
" Is this Elaine.^" till back the maiden 

fell, 
Then gave a languid hand to each, and 

lay, 
Speaking a still good-morrow with her 

eyes. 
At last she said, " Sweet brothers, yes- 

tern.ight 
I seem'd a curious liitle maid again, 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



321 



As happy as when we dwelt among the 

woods, « 
And when you used to take me with 

the flood 
Up the great river in the boatman's 

boat. 
Only you would not pass beyond the 

cape [fixt 

That has the poplar on it : there you 
Your limit, oft returning with the tide, 
And yet I cried because you would not 

pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining flood 
Until we found the palace of the king. 
And yet you would not ; but this night 

I dream'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood. 
And then I said, ' Now shall I have my 

will : ' 
And there I woke, but still the wish 

remain'd. 
So let me hence that I may pass at last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, 
Until I find the palace of the king. 
There will I enter in amongthem.all, 
And no man there will dare to mock 

at me ; 
But there the fine Gawain will wonder 

at me, 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse 

at me ; 
Gawain, who bade a thousand farewells 

to me, 
Lancelot, who coldly went nor bade me 

one : 
And there the King will knov^r me and 

my love. 
And there the Queen herself will pity 

me, 
And all the gentle court will welcome 

me. 
And after my long voyage I shall rest ! " 

" Peace," said her father, " O my 
child, you seem 
lyight-headed, for what force is yours 

to go, 
So far, being sick ? and wherefore 

would you look 
On this proud fellow again, who scorns 
us all } » 

21 



Then the rough Torre began to 

heave and move, 
And bluster into stormy sobs and say, 
" I never loved him : an 1 meet with 

him, 
I care not howsoever great he be, 
Then will I strike at him and strike him 

down. 
Give me good fortune, I will strike him 

dead. 
For this discomfort he hath done the 

house." 

To which the gentle sister made 

reply, 
" Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor 

be wroth, 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's 

fault 
Not to love m.e, than is it mine to love 
Him of all men who seems to me the 

highest." 

" Highest ? " the Father answer'd, 

echoing " highest." 
(He meant to break the passion in her.) 

" Nay, 
Daughter^ I know not what you call 

the highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people 

know it. 
He loves . the Queen, and in an open 

shame : 
And she returns his love in open shame. 
If this be high, what is it to be low ? " 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat : 
" Sweet father, all 'too faint and sick 

am I 
For anger : these are slanders : never 

yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made a 
I foe. 

] But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain : so let me 
pass, 
I My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, 
j Not all unhappy, having loved God's 
best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no 
I return : 



322 



JGYLS OF THE Ka^G. 



Yet, seeing you desire your child to 

live, 
Thanks, but jou work against your own 

desire ; 
For if 1 could believe the things you 

say 
I should but die the sooner : wherefore 

cease, [man 

Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, 

and die." 

So when the ghostly man had come 

and gone. 
She with a face, bright as for sin for- 
given, 
Besought Lavaine to write as she 

devised 
A letter, word for word ; and when he 

ask'd 
" Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear 

lord ? 
Then will I bear it gladly ; " she 

replied, 
'•' For Lancelot and the Queen and all 

the world, 
But I myself must bear it." Then he 

wrote 
The letter she devised ; which being 

writ 
And folded, ''' O sweet father, tender 

and true. 
Deny me not,'' she said — " you never 

yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however 

strange, 
My latest : lay the letter in my hand 
A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it ; I shall guard it even in death, 
And when the heat is gone from out 

my heart, 
Then take the little bed on which I 

died 
For Lancelot's love, and deck it like 

the Queen's 
For richness, and me also like the 

Queen 
In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. 
And let there be prepared a chariot- 
bier 
To take me to the river, and a barge 



Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine 

own self. 
And none of vou can speak for me so 

well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man 

alone 
Go with me, he can steer and row, and 

he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the 

doors." 

She ceased : her father promised ; 

whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd 

her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the 

blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on 

the eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand. 
And closed the hand upon it, and she 

died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake from 

underground. 
Then, these two brethren slowly with 

bent brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, thai 

shone 
Full-summer, to that stream whereon 

the barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, 

lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the 

house, 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck^ 
Winking his e3-es, and twisted all his 

face. 
So those two brethren from the chariot- 
took 
And on the black decks laid her in her 

bed, 
Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazon- 

ings, 
And kiss'dher quiet brow?, and saying 

to her, 
" Sister, farewell forever," and again. 



WYLS ^F THE KING. 



Z^Z 



" Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in 

tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and 

the dead 
Steer'd by the dumb went upward with 

the flood — 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter — all her bright hair stream- 
ing down — 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
Drawn to her waist, and she herself in 

white 
All but her face, and that clear-featured 

face 
Was lovely, for she did not seem as 

dead 
But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she 

smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace 

craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costly 

gift, 
Hard-won and hardly won with bruise 

and blow, 
With deaths of others, and almost his 

own, 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : 

for he saw 
One of her house, and sent him to the 

Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen 

agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but 

that he, 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd 

her feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 
The shadow of a piece of pointed lace, 
Li the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the 

walls, 
And parted, laughing in his courtly 

heart. 

All in an oriel on the summer side, 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward 

the stream, 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling 

utter'd " Queen, 



Lady, my liege, in whom I have niy 

I Take, what I had not won except for 
you, 
These jewels, and make me happy, 
j making them 

I An armlet for the roundest arm on 
i earth, 

j Or necklace for a neck to which the 
I swan's 

; Is tawnier than her cygnet's : these are 
I words : va^»-vv>^-, ■^..--•^-^ 

I Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 

In speaking, yet O grant my worship 
1 of it 

Words, as we grant grief tears. Such 

sin in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon : but, 

my Queen, 
I hear of rumors flying thro' your 

court. 
Our bond, as not the bond of man 

•and wife, 
Should have in it an absoluter trust 
To make up that defect : let rumors 
be: 
, When did not rumors fly ? these, as I 
I trust 

! That you trust me in your ov/n nobie- 
i ness, 

I may not well believe that you believe." 

• While thus he spoke, half turned 
I aw a}', the Queen 

i Brake from the ^^.st oriel-embov\-cring 
I vine- 

j Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them 
I off, 

I Till all the place whereon she stood 
I was green ; 

I Then, when he ceased, in one cold 
i passive hand 

I Received at once and laid aside the 
I gems 

There on a table near her, and replied : 

" It may be, I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the 
Lake. 

Our bond is not the bond of man and 

wife. 
This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, 



324 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



It can Idc broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite 

and wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of 

hearts 
I did acknowledge nobler. What are 

these ? 
Diamonds for me ! they had been 

thrice their worth 
Being your gift, had you not lost your 

own. 
To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for me ! 
For her!, for your new fancy. Only 

this 
Grant me, I pray you : have your joys 

apart. 
I doubt not that however changed, you 

keep 
So much of what is graceful : and m}-- 

self 
Would shun to break those bounds of 

courtesy 
In which as Arthur's queen I move 

and rule ; 
So cannot speak my mind. An end to 

this ! 
A strange one ! yet I take it with 

Amen. 
So pray you, add my diamonds to her 

pearls ; 
Deck her with these ; tell her, _she 

shines me down : 
An armlet for an arm to v.'hich the 

Queen's 
Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 
O as much fairer — as a faith once fair 
Was richer than these diamonds — hers 

not mine — 
Nay, bv the mother of our Lord him- 

' seff, 
Or hers or mine, mine now to work my 

will- 
She shall not have them." 

Saying which she seized. 
And thro' the casement standing wide 

for heat, 
Flung them, and down they flash'd, and 

smote the stream. 
Then from the smitten, surface flash'd 

as it were, 



Diamonds to meet them, and they past 

away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half 

disgust 
At love, life, all things, on the window 

ledge, 
Close underneath his eyes, and right 

across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past the 

barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest 

night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, 

burst av,-ay 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the 

barge 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, 

paused. 
There two stood arm'd, and kept the 

door ; to whom, 
All up the marble stair, lier over tier. 
Were added mouths that gaped, and 

eyes that ask'd 
" What is it 1 " but that oarsman's 

haggard face, 
As hard and still as is the face that 

men 
Shape to their fancy's eye from broken 

rocks 
Onsome cliff-side, appall'd them, and 

they said, 
** Fie is enchanted, cannot speak — and 

she. 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy Queen, 

so fair ! 
Yea, but how pale ! what are they ? 

flesh and blood } 
Or come to take the King to fairy 
I land t 

For some do hold our Arthur cannot 

die, 
I But that he passes into fairy land." 

i While thus they babbled of the King 

the King 
Came girt with knights : then turn'd 

the tongueless man 
From the half-face to the full eye, and 

rose 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



325 



And pointed to the damsel, and the 

doors. 
So Arthur bade the meek Sir Perci- 

vale 
And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the 

maid; 
And reverently they bore her into j 

hall. 
Then came the fine Gawain, and won- 

der'd at her, 
And Lancelot later came and mused 

at her, 
At last the Queen herself and pitied 

her : 
But Arthur spied the letter in her 

hand, 
Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; 

this was all : 

"Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of 
the Lake, 

I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, 

Come, for you left me taking no fare- 
well. 

Hither, to take my last farewell of 
y;u. 

I loved you, and my love had no re- 
turn, 

And therefore my true love has been 
my death. 

And therefore to our lady Guinevere, 1 

And to all other ladies, I make moan I 

Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 

Prav for my soul, thou too, Sir Lance- 
'lot, I 

As thou art a knight peerless." 1 

Thus he read, ' 

And ever in the readings lords and i 
dames ; 

Wept, looking often from his face who | 
read ! 

To hers v>hich lay so silent, and at i 
times, j 

So touch'd were they, half-thinking j 
that her kps, | 

Who had devised the letter, mov:d i 
again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to 
them all : 
*• My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that 
hear, 



Know that for this most gentle maid- 
en's death 
Right heavy am I : for good she was 

and true. 
But loved me with a love beyond all 

love 
In women, whomsoever I have known. 
Yet to be loved makes not to love 

again ; 
Not at my years, however it hold in 

youth. 
I swear by truth and knighthood that 

I gave [love : 

No cause, not willingly, for such a 
To this I call my friends in testimony. 
Her brethren, and her father, who 

himself 
Besought me to be plain and blunt, 

and use, 
To break hef passion, some discour- 
tesy 
Against my nature: what I could, I 

did. 
I left her and I bade her no farewell. 
Tho' had I dreamt the damsel would 

have died, 
I miglit have put my wits to some 

rough use, 
And help'd her from herself." 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after 

storm), 
"You might at least have done her 

so much grace, 
Fair lord, as would have help'd her 

from her death." 
He raised his head, their eyes met and 

hers fell, 
He adding, 

" Queen, she would iiot be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could 

not be. 
Tlien might she follow me thro' the 

v.-orld, she ask'd; 
It could not be. I told her that her 

love 
Vv^'as but the fiasli of youth, would 

darken down 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — then 

W'Ould I, 



326 



ID YLS OF THE KING, 



More specially wcrj he, she wedded, 
poor, 

Estate them with large land and terri- 
tory 

In niine own realm beyond the narrow 
seas, 

To keep them in all joyance: more 
than this 

I could not : this she would not, and 
she died." 

He pausing, Arthur answer'd, " O 
my knight, 

It will be to your worship as my 
knight, 

And mine, as head of all our Table 
Round, 

To see that she be buried worship- 
fully." 

■So toward that shrine which then in 
all the realm 

Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly 
went 

The marshall'd order of their Table 
Round, 

And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to 
see 

The maiden buried, not as one un- 
known. 

Nor meanly, but with gorgeous ob- 
sequies. 

And mass, and rolling music, like a 
Queen. 

And when the knights had laid her 
comely head 

Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, 

Then Arthur spake among them, "Let 
her tomb 

Ee costly, and her image thereupon. 

And let the shield of Lancelot at her 
feet 

Be carven, and licr lily in her hand. 

And let the story of her dolorous voy- 
age 

For all true hearts be blazon'd on her 
tomb 

In letters gold and azure ! " which was 
wrong lit 

Thereafter; but when now the lords 
and dames 



And people, from the high door, stream- 
ing, brake 

Disorderly, as homeward each, the 
Queen, 

Who mari<\l Sir Lancelot where he 
moved apart. 

Drew near, and sigh'd in passing, 
" Lancelot, 

Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in 
love." 

He answer'd with his eyes upon the 
ground, 

" That is love's curse ; pass on, my 
Queen, forgiven." 

But Arthur who beheld his cloudy 
brows 

Approach'd him, and with full affec- 
tion flung 

One arm about his neck, and spake 
and said : 

" Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in 

whom I have 
?lost joy and most affiance, for I 

know 
What thou hast been in battle by my 

side, 
And manv a time have watch'd thee at 

the ti'lt 
Strike down the lusty and long-prac- 
tised knight, [by 
And let the younger and unskill'd go 
To win his honor and to make his 

name, 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a 

man 
Made to be loved ; — but now I would 

to God 
For the wild people say wild things of 

thee, 
Thou couldst have loved this maiden, 

shaped, it seems, 
By God for thee alone, and from her 

face, 
If one may judge the living by the 

dead. 
Delicately pure and marvellously fair, 
Who might have brought thee, now a 

lonely man 
Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, 

sons 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



327 



Born to the glory of thy name and 

fame, 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of 

the Lake." 

Then ans'.ver'd Lancelot, " Fair she 

was, my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights to 

be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an 

eye, 
'J'o doubt her pureness were to want a 

heart, — 
^'ea, to be loved, if what is worthy 

love 
r.-ould bind him, but free love will not 

be bound." 

" Free love, so bound, were freest," 

said the King. 
" Let love be free ; free love is for the 

best: 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of 

death. 
What should be best, if not so pure a 

love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness ? yet 

thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I 

think. 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I 

know." 

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but 

he went. 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove and watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his 

eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her 

moving down, 
Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and 

said 
Low in himself, "Ah simple heart and 

sweet. 
You loved me, damsel, surely with a 

love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray 

for thy soul ? 
Av, that will I. Farewell too — now at 

last-- 
Farewell, fair lily. ' Jealousy in love ? ' 



j Not rather dead love's harsh heir, 
jealous pride ? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of 

love. 
May not your crescent fear for name 

and fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that 

wanes ? 
Why did the King dwell on my name 

to me "i 
Mine own name shames me, seeming a 

reproach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the lake 
Stole from his mother — as the story 

runs — 
She chanted snatches of mysterious 

song 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and 

morn 
She kiss'd me saying thou art fair, my 

child, 
As a king's son, and often in her arms 
I She bare me, pacing on the dusky 
I mere. i-rvX, 

j Would she had drown'd me in it, 
I where'er it be ! 

1 For what am I .^ what profits me my 
j name 

. Of greatest knight? I fought for it, 
j and have it : 

i Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, 
' pain : 

! Now grown a part of me : but what 
I use in it .'' 

j To make men worse by making my sin 
I known .-* 

Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming 

i great ? [man 

' Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a 

i Not after Arthur's heart, I needs must 

break 

These bonds that so defame me : not 

without 
She wills it : would I, if she will'd it t 

na}''. 
Who knows ? but if I would not, then 

may God, 
I pray him, send a sudden Angel 

down 
To seize me by the hair and bear me 
far, 



328 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



And fling me deep in that forgotten 

mere, 
Among the tumbled fragments of the 

hills." 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorse- 
ful pain, 
Not knowing he should die a holy 



GUINEVERE. 

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, 

and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little 

maid, 
A novice: one low light betwixt them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all 

abroad, 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the 

face, 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land 

was still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause of 

flight 
Sir Modred; he the iiearest to the 

King, 
His nephews ever like a subtle beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the 

throne, 
Readv to spring, v\'aiting a chance : for 

this, 
He chill'd the popular praises of the 

King. 
With silent smiles of slow disparage- 
ment ; 
And tamp.-^r'd v»'ith the Lords of the 

White Horse, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; 

and sought 
To make disruption in the Table 

Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end; and all his 

aims 
Were sharpen'd bj strong hate for 

Lancelot. 



For thus it chanced one morn when 

all the court, 
Green-suited, but with plum.es that 

mock'd the May, 
Had been, their wont, a-maying and re- 

turn'd. 
That Modred still in green, all ear and 

eye, 
Climb'd to the high top of the garden 

wall 
To spy some secret scandal if he might, 
And saw the Queen, who sat betwixt 

her best 
Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 
The wiliest and the worst ; and more 

than this 
He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing 

by 
Spied where he couch' d, and as the 

gardener's hand 
Picks from the colev/ort a green cat- "^ 

erpillar. 
So from the high wall and the flowering 

grove 
Of grasses Lancelot pluck'dhim by the 

heel. 
And cast him as a worm upon the w^ay ; 
But when he knew the Prince tho' 

marr'd with dust. 
He, reverencing king's blood in a bad 

man, 
Made such excuses as he might, and 

these 
Full knightly without scorn; for in 

those days 
No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in 

scorn ; 
But, if a man v/ere halt or hunch'd, in 

him 
By those whom God had made full- 

limb'd and tall. 
Scorn was allow'd as part of his de- 
fect, 
And he was answer'd softly by the 

King 
And all 'his Table. So Sir Lancelot 

holp 
To raise the Prince, who rising twice 

or thrice 
Full sharply smote his knees, and 

smiled, and went ; 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



329 



But, ever after, the small violence clone 
Rankled in him and rufRed all his 

heart, 
As the sharp wind that ruffles all day 

long 
A little bitter pool about a stone 
On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she 

laugh'd 
Lightlv. to think of Modred's dusty 

fall, 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife 

who cries I Vi-oke. 

" I shudder, some one steps across my And all this trouble did not pass but 



On some vast plain before a setting 

sun. 
And from the sun there sv>-iftly made 

at her 
A ghastly something, and its shadow 

'flew 
Before her, till it touch'd her, and she 

turn d — 
When lo ! her own, that broadening 

from her feet. 
And blackening, swallow'dall the land, 

and in it 
Far cities burnt, and with a cry she 



grave ; 



grew 



Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for | Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless 



indeed 



King, 



She half-foresaw that he, the subtle | And trustful courtesies of household 



beast, 
Would track her guilt until he found, 

and hers 
Would be forevermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarelv could she front 

in Hall, 
Or elsewhere, ]\Iodred's nairow foxy 

face. 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent 

e}'e • 
Henceforward too, the Powers that 

tend tiie soul, 
To help it from the death that cannot 

die, 
And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time 

for hours. 
Beside the placid breathings of the 

King, 
In the dead night, grim faces came and 

went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 
Like to some doubtful noise of creak- 
ing doors. 
Heard by the watcher in a haunted 

house. 
That keeps the rust of murder on the 

walls — 
Held her awake ; or if she slept, she 

dream'd 
An awful dream ; for then she seem'd 

to stand 



life. 
Became her bane ; and at the last she 

said, 
" O Lancelot, get thee thence to thine 

ov/n land, 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again. 
And if we meet again some evil chance 
Will make the smouldering scandal 

break and blaze 
Before the people, and our lord the 

King." 
And Lancelot ever promiised, but re- 
ma in 'd, 
And still they met and met. Again 

she said, ' 
" O Lancelot, if thou love me cet thee 

hence," 
And then they vrere agreed upon a 

night 
(When the good King should not be 

there) to meet [met 

And part ff)rever. Passion-pale they 
And greeted : hands in hands, and eye 

to eye. 
Low on the border of her couch they 

they sat 
Stammering and staring ; it was their 

last hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred 

brought 
His creatures to the basement of the 

tower 



330 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



For testimony; and crying with full ' Till in the cold wind that foreruns the 

voice, ' 1 morn. 

*■ Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying 

last," aroused ^ liigli* 

Lancelot, who rushing outward lioii- \ Croak'd, and she thought, " He spies 

like i a field of death ; 

Leapt on him, and hurl'd him head- For now the heathen of the Northern 

long, and he fell Sea, 

Stunn'd, and his creatures took and Lured by the crimes and frailties of 

bare him off ' the court, 

And all was still : then she, " The end Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the 

is come ! land." 

And I am shamed forever:" and he ! And when she came to Almesbury 

said, I she spake 

"Mine be the shame: mine was the I There to the nuns, and said, "Mine 

sin ; but rise, | enemies 

And fly to my strong castle overseas ; I Pursue me, but, O ' peaceful Sister- 



There will I hide thee, till ray life shall 

end, 
There hold thee with my life against 

the world." 
She answer'd, " Lancelot, wilt thou 

hold me so ? 
Nay friend, for we have taken our fare- 

v/ells. 
Vv'ould God, that thou (wuldst hide me 

from mvself ! 



hood, 
Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor 

ask 
Her name, to whom ye yield it, till her 

time 
To tell you : " and her beauty, grace, 

and power 
i V/rought as a charm upon them, and 
j they spared 

To ask it. 



Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and 1 So the stately Queen abode 

thou j For many a week, unknown, among the 

Unwedded : yet rise now, and let us nuns; 

fly, ; Nor with them mix'd, nor told her 

For I 'will draw me into sanctuar3% I name, nor sought, 

And bide my doom." So Lancelot got i Wrapt in her grief, for house! or for 

her horse, i shrift. 

Set her thereon, and mounted on his I But communed only v.ith the little 

own, I maid, 

And then they rode to the divided way, ^Yho pleased her with a babbling 



There kiss'd, and parted weeping : for 
he past 

Love-loyal to the least wish of the 
Queen, 

Back to his land ; but she to Almes- 
bury 

Fled all night long by glimmering 
was'e and weald, 



heedlessness 
Which often lured her from herself ; 

but now. 
This night, a rumor wildly blown about 
Came that Sir Modred had usurp'd 

the realm. 
And leagued . him with the heathen, 

while the King 



And heard the Spirits of the waste and i Was waging war on Lancelot : then 

weald j she thought. 

Moan as she fled, or thought she heard : " With what a hate the people and the 

them moan : King 

And in herself she moan'd, " Too late, Must hate me," and bow'd down upon 

too late ! " her hands 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



zz-^ 



Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd 
No silence, brake it, uttering " Late ! 

so late ! 
What hour, I wonder, now ? " and 

when she drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her ; " Late, 

so late ! " 
Which when she heard, the Queen 

look'd up, and said, 
•* O maiden, if indeed you list to sing. 
Sing and unbind my heart that I may 

weep." 
Whereat full willingly sang the little 

m.aid. 

*' Late, late, so .late ! and dark the 

night and chill ! 
Late, late, so late ! but we can enter 

still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter 

now. 

" No light had we : for that we do 

repent ; 
And learning this, the bridegroom will 

relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter 

now. 
" No light : so late ! and dark and 

chill t"he night ! 
O let us in, that we may find the light ! 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter 

now. 

" Have we not heard the bride- 
groom is so sweet ? 
O let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

So sang the novice, while full pas- 
sionately. 

Her head upon her hands, remember- 
ing 

Her thought when first she came, wept 
the sad Queen. 

Then said the little novice prattling to 
her; 

" O pray you, noble lady, weep no 
more : 
But let my words, the words of one so 

small, 



Who knovv'ing nothing knows but to 

obey, 
And if I do not there is penance given — 
Comfort your sorrows ; for they do 

not flow 
From evil done : right sure am I of that, 
Who see your tender grace and state- 

liness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord 

the King's, 
And weighing find them less; for 

gone is he 
To wage grim war against Sir Lance- 
lot there. 
Round that strong castle where he 

holds the Queen ; 
And Modred whom he left in charge 

of all. 
The traitor — Ahsweet lady, the King's 

grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, 

and realm, 
Must needs be thrice as great as any o£ 

ours. [great. 

For me I thank the saints I am not 
For if there ever come a grief to me 
I cry my cry in silence, and have done : 
None knows it, and my tears have 

brought me good. 
But even were the griefs of little ones 
As great as those of great ones, yet 

this grief 
Is added to the griefs the great m.ust 

bear, 
That howsoever much they may desire 
Silence, they cannot weep behind a 

cloud : 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good King and his wicked 

Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a 

Queen, 
V\''ell might I wish to veil her wicked- 
ness, 
But were I such a King, it could not 

be." ■ 

Then to her Ou'n sad heart mutter'd 
the Queen, 
"Will the child kill me v/ith her in- 
nocent talk ? '' 



332 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



But openly she answer'd, "Must not I, 
If this false traitor have displaced his 

lord, 
Grieve with the common grief of all 

the realm ? " 

" Vea," said the maid, '"' this is all 

woman's grief, 
That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table 

Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, 

years ago, 
With signs and miracles and wonders, 

there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the 

Queen." 

Then thought the Queen within her- 
self again, 

" Will the child kill me with her foolish 
prate ? " 

But openly she spake and said to her, 

'O little maid, shut in by nunnery 
walls, 

WHiat canst thou know of Kings and 
Tables Round, 

Or what of signs and wonders, but the 
signs 

And simple miracles of thy nunnery ? " 

To whom the little novice garrulous- 
ly: 
" Yea, but I know : the land was full of 

signs 
And w'ondcrs ere the coming of the 

Queen. 
So said my father, and himself was 

knight 
Of the great Table — at the founding of 

it : 
And rode thereto from Lj'onnesse, and 

he said 
That as he rode, an hour or maybe 

twain 
After tlie sunset, down the coast, he 

he rd 
Strange music, and he paused and 

turning — there, 
All down the lonely coast of Lyon- 

nesse. 



Each with a beacon-star upon his head, 
And with a wild sea-light about his feet. 
He saw them — headland after headland 

flame 
F'ar on into the rich heart of the west : 
And in the light the white mermaiden 

swam, 
And strong man-breasted things stood 

from the sea. 
And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the 

land. 
To which the little elves of chasm and 

cleft 
Made answ'er, sounding like a distant 

horn. 
So said my father— yea, and further- 
more. 
Next morning, while he past the dim- 
lit woods. 
Himself beheld three spirits mad with 

joy 
Come dashing down on a tall wayside 

flower. 
That shook beneath them, as the thistle 

shakes 
WHien three gray linnets wrangle for 

the seed : 
And still at evenings on before his 

horse 
The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and 

broke 
Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd 

and broke 
Flying, for all the land was full of life. 
And when at last he came to Camelot, 
A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
Swung round the Lighted lantern of the 

hall ; 
And in tlie hall itself was such a feast 
As never man had dream' d ; for every 

knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for 

served 
By hands unseen ; and even as he said 
Down in the cellars merry bloated 

things 
Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the 

butts 
While the wine ran so glad were spirits 

and men 
Before the coming of the sinful Queen." 



JDYLS OF THE KING. 



Zol 



Then spake the Queen, and somewhat 

bitterly, 
" Were they so glad ? ill prophets were 

they all, 
vSpirits and men : could none of them 

foresee, 
Not even thy wise father with his 

signs 
And wonders, what has falln upon the 

realm ? ' " 

To whom the novice garrulously 

again : 
" Yea, one, a bard ; of whom my father 

said, 
Full many a nobin war-song had he 

sung, 
Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet, 
Between the steep cliff and the coming 

wave ; 
And many a mystic lay of life and death 
Had chanted oh the smoky mountain- 
tops, [hills. 
When round him bent the spirits of the 
With all their dewy hair blown back 

like flame : 
So said my father — and that night the 

bard 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang 

the King 
As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd 

at those 
Who call'd him the false son of Gor- 

lois : 
For there was no man knew from 

whence he came ; 
But after tempest, when the long wave 

broke 
All down the thundering shores of Bude 

and Bos, 
There came a day as still as heaven, 

and then 
They found a naked child upon the 

sands 
Of dark Dundagil by the Cornish sea ; 
And that was Arthur ; and they foster'd 

him 
Till he by miracle was approven king : 
And that his grave should be a mystery 
From all men, like his birth; and'could 

he find 



A woman in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he 

sang. 
The twain together well might change 

the v.'orld. 
But even in the middle of his song 
He falter'd, and his hand fell from the 

harp. 
And pale he turn'd, and rcel'd, and 

would have falTn, 
But that they stay'dhim up ; nor would 

he tell 
His vision ; but what doubt that he 

foresaw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the 

Queen?" 

Then thought the Queen, " Lo ! they 

have set her on, 
Our simple seeming Abbess and her 

nuns. 
To play upon me," and bow'dher head 

nor spake. 
Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd 

hands. 
Shame on her own garrulity garrulously, 
Said the good nuns would check her 

gadding tongue 
Full often, " And, sweet lady, if I seem 
To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, 
Unmannerly, with prattling and with 

tales 
Which my good father told me, check 

me too : 
Nor let me shame my father's memory, 

one 
Of noblest manners, tho' himself would 

say 
Sir Lancelot had the noblest : and he 

died, 
Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers 

back. 
And left me; but of others who re- 
main. 
And of the two first-famed for cour- 
tesy — 
And pray you check me if I ask amiss— 
But pray you, which had noblest, while 

you moved 
Among them, Lancelot or our lord the 

King ? " 



334 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Then the pale Queen look'd up and 

answered her, 
" Sir Lancelot, as became a nuble 

knight, 
^Vas gracious to all ladies, and the 

same 
In open l^attle or the tilting-field 
Forbore liis own advantage, and these 

two [all ; 

Vv ere the most nobly-manner'd men of 
For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature, and of noble mind." 

" Yea," said the maid, " be manners 
such fair fruit? 
Then Lancelot's needs must be a thou- 
sand fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumor runs, 
The most disloyal friend in ail the 
world." 

To which a mournful answer made 

the Queen, 
" O closed about bynarro\ving nunncry- 

• walls. 
What knowest thou of the world, and 

all its lights 
And shadows, all the v/eaith and all 

the woe ? 
It ever Lancelot, that most noble 

knight, 
Were for one hour less noble than him- 
self, 
Pray for him that he scape the doom 

of fire. 
And weep for her, who drew him to his 

doom." 

"Yea," said the little novice, "I 

pray for both ; 
Lut 1 should all as soon believe that 

his, 
Sir Lan.celol's, were as noble as the 

King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours 

would be 
Such i they arc, were you the sinful 

Queen." 

So she, like many another babbler, 
hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd 
where she would heal : 



For here a sudden flush of wrathful 
I heat 

j Fired all the pale face of the Queen, 
! who cried, 

j "Such as thou art be never maiden 
I more 

Forever ! thou their tool, set on to 

plague 
And play upon, and harry me, pretty 

spy 
And traitress." W hen that storm of 

anger brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden 

rose. 
White as her veil, and stood before the 

Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and 

fly, 

And when the Queen had added " Get 

thee hence ! " 
Fled frighted. Then that other left 

alone 
Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again. 
Saying in herself, " The simple, fearful 

child 
iSIeant nothing, but my own too fearful 

guilt 
Simpler than any child, betrays itself. 
But help me, heaven, for surely I re- 
pent. 
For what is true repentance but in 

thought — 
Not e'en in inmost thought to think 

again 
The sins that made the past so pleasant 

to us : 
And I have sworn never to see him 

more. 
To see him more." 

And e'en in saying this, 
Her memory from old habit of the 

mind 
Went slipping back upon the golden 

days 
In which she sav»' him first, when Lance- 
lot came. 
Reputed tuc best knight and goodliest 

man. 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead 



i 



JJ9YLS OF THE KLVG. 335 



Of his and her retinue moving, thev, \ Thro' the long gallery from the outer 
Rapt in sweet thought^ or lively, all on | doors 

love : Rang coming, prone from off her seat 

And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for i she fell, 

the time j And grovell'd with her face against the 

Was maytime, and as yet no sin was ' floor : 

dream'd,) , There with her milkwhite arms and 

Rode under groves that look'd a para- j shadowy hair 

dise She made her face a darkness from the 

Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth King: 

That seem'd the heavens upbreaking And in the darkness heard his armed 

thro' the earth, ! feet 

And on from hill to hill, and every day ; Pause by her; then came silence, then 
Beheld at noon in some delicious dale j a voice, 

The silk pavilions of King Arthur | Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's 

raised ' Denouncing judgment, but tho' changed 

For brief repast or afternoon repose i the King's. 

By couriers gone before ; and on again, ] 
Till yet once more ere set of sun they j «^ Liest thou here so low, the child of 

saw 1 one 

The Dragon of the great Pendragon- ! j honor'd, happv, dead before thy 

ship, I shame? 

That crown'd the state pavilion of the Wdl is it that no child is born of thee. 



The children born of thee are sword 

and fire. 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, 
The craft of kindred and the Godless 

hosts [^ea. 

Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my 

right arm, 



Kmg, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent 
well. 

But when the Queen immersed in 
such a trance, 
And moving thro' the past unconscious- 

Came to that point, when first she saw j The mightiest of my knights abode 

the King : with me, 

Ride toward her from the citv, sigh'd i Have evervvv^here about this land of 

to find ' _ I Christ' 

Pier journey done, glanced at him, ! In twelve great battles ruining over- 
thought him cold, j thrown. 
High, self-contain'd, and passionless, > And knowest thou now from v.-hence I 

not like him, [ come — from him, 

" Not like my Lancelot " — while she From waging bitter war with him : and 

brooded thus I he, 

And grew half-guilty in her thoughts ' That did not shun to smite me in worse 

again. i wav. 

There rode an armed v/arrior to the Had yet that grace of courtesy in him 

doors. : left, 

A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ' He spared to lift his hand against the 

ran, i King 

Then on a sudden a cry, "The King." V\'ho made him knight: but many a 

She sat | knight v\-as slain ; 

Stiff-stricken, listening ; but when And many more, and all his kith and 

armed feet j kin 



33^ 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Clave to him, and abode in his own 


I made them lay their hands in mine 


land. 


and swear 


And many more when Modred raised 


To reverence the King, as if he were 


revolt. 


Their conscience, and their conscience 


Forgetful of their troth and fealty, 


as their King. 


^clave 


To break the heathen and uphold the 


To Modred, and a remnant stays with 


Christ, 


me. 


To ride abroad redressing human 


And of this remnant will I leave a 


wrongs. 


part, 


To speak no slander, no, nor listen to 


True men who love me still, for whom 


it. 


I live. 


To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, 


To guard thee in the wild hour coming 


To love one maiden only, cleave to 


on^ 


her, 


Lest but a hair of this low head be 


And worship her by years of noble 


harrn'd. 


deeds, 


Fear not: thou shait be guarded till 


Until they won her; for indeed I 


my death. 


knew 


Ilowbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 


Of no more subtle master under 


Have err'd not, that I march to meet 


heaven 


my doom. 


Than is the maiden passion for a 


Thou hast not made my life so sweet 


maid. 


to me, 


Not only to keep down the base in 


That I the King should greatly care to 


man^, 


live ; 


But teach high thought and amiable 


For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my 


words 


life. 


And courtliness, and the desire of 


Bear with me for the last time while I 


fame. 


show, 


And love of truth, and all that m.akes 


Ev'n for thy sake, the sin v,-hich thou 


a man. 


hast sinn'd. 


And all this throve until I wedded 


For when the Roman left us, and their 


thee ! 


law 


Believing "lo mine helpmate, one to 


Relax'd its hold upon us, and the 


feel 


wavs 


My purpose and rejoicing in my joy." 


Were fill'd with rapine, here and there 


Then came thy shameful sin with Lan- 


a deed 


celot; 


Of prowess done redress' d a random 


Then came the sin of Tristram and 


wrong. 


Isolt; 


But I was first of all the kings who 


Then others, following these my might- 


drew 


iest knights. 


The knighthood-errant of this realm 


And drawing foul ensample from fair 


and all 


names, 


The realms together under me, their 


Sinn'd also, till the loathsome oppo- 


Head, 


site 


In that fair order of my Table Round, 


Of all my heart had destined did ob- 


A glorious company,' the flower of 


tain. 


men, 


And all thro' thee ! so that this life of 


To serve as model for the mighty 


mine 


world. 


I guard as God's high gift from scathe 


And be the fair beginning of a time. 


and wrong, 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



337 



Not greatly care to lose; but rather 

think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should he 

live, 
To sit once more within his lonely 

hall, 
And miss the wonted number of my 

knights, 
And miss to hear high talk of noble 

deeds 
As in the golden days before thy sin. 
For which of us, who might be left, 

could speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance 

at thee ? [Usk 

And in thy bowers of Camelot or of 
Thy shadow still would glide from 

room to room. 
And I should evermore be vext with 

thee 
In hanging robe or vacant ornament, 
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the 

stair. 
For think not, tho' thou wouldst not 

love thy Lord, 
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for 

thee. 
I am not made of so slight elements. 
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy 

shame. 
I hold that man the worst of public 

foes 
Who either for his own or children's 

sake. 
To save his blood from scandal, lets 

the wife 
Whom he knows false, abide and rule 

the house : 
For being thro' his cowardice allow' d 
Her station, taken everywhere for 

pure, 
She like a new disease, unknown to 

men. 
Creeps, no precaution used, among the 

crowd, 
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, 

and saps 
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the 

pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half 

the young. 

^4 



Worst of the worst were that man he 

that reigns ! 
Better the King's waste hearth and 

aching heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of 

light, 
The mockery of mv people, and their 

bane." 

He paused, and in the pause she 
crept an inch 

Nearer, and laid her hands about his 
feet. 

Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 

Then waiting by the doors the war- 
horse neigh'd 

As at a friend's voice, and he spake 
again: 

" Yet think not that I come to urge 

thy crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me 

die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden 

head. 
My pride in happier summers at my 

feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts 

on that fierce law. 
The doom of treason and the flaming 

death, 
(Wlien first I learnt thee hidden here) 

is past. 
The pang — which while I weigh' d thy 

heart with one 
Too wholly true to dream untruth in 

thee, 
Made my tears burn — is also past, in 

part. 
And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, 
Lo i I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives : do thou for thine own soul 

the rest. 
But hov/ to take last leave of all I 

loved .'* 
O golden hair, v^ith which I used to 

play 
Not knowirg! O imperial-moulded 

form, 
And beauty such as never women 

were, 



33^ 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Until it came a kingdora's curse \vith 

thee — 
I cannot touch thy lips, they are not 

mine, 
But Lancelot's: nay, they never were 

the King's. 
I cannot take thy hand; that too is 

flesh, 
And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; and 

mine own flesh, 
Here looking down on thine own pol- 
luted, cries 
'I loathe thee;' yet not less, O Guine- 
vere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee. 
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into 

my life 
So far, that mv doom is, I love thee 

still. ' [still. 

Let no man dream but that I love thee 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, 
And so thou lean on our fair father 

Christ, 
Hereafter in that Vv'orld where all are 

pure 
We two may meet before high God, 

and thou 
\Yilt spring to me, and cUim me thine, 

and know 
I am thine husband— not a smaller 

soul, 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me 

that, 
I charge thee, my last hope. Now 

must I hence. 
Thro' the thick night I hear the trum- 
pet blow : 
They summon me their King to lead 

mine hosts 
Far down to that great battle in the 

west. 
Where I must strike against my sister's 

son, 
Leagued with the lords of the White 

Horse and knights 
Once mine, and strike him dead, and 

meet myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious 

doom. 
And thou remaining here wilt learn the 

event; 



I But hither shall I never come again, 

Never lie by thy side, see thee no 
I more, 

1 Farewell ! " 

I And while she grovell'd at his feet. 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er 

her neck, 
And, in the darkness o'er her fallen 

head. 
Perceived the waving of his hands that 
blest. 

Then, listening till those armed 

steps were gone, 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her 

anguish found 
The caspnient: " Peradventure," so 

she thought, 
" If I might see his face, and not be 

seen." 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the 

door I 
And near him the sad nuns with each 

a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge abou : 

the Queen, 
To guard and foster her forevermore. 
And while he spake to these his helm 

was lower'd. 
To which for crest the golden dragon 

clung [face, 

Of Britain ; so she did not see the 
W hich then v\'as as an angel's, but she 

saw, 
Wet with the mists and smitten bv the 

lights, 
The Dragon of the great Pendragon- 

sh:p [firi. 

Blaze, making all the night a steam of 
And even then he turn'd; and more 

and more 
The moony vapor rolling round the 

King, 
Who secm'd the phantom o£ a Giant 

in it, 
Enwound him fold by fold, and made 

him gray 
And grayer, till himself became as 

mist 
Before her, moving ghostlike to his 

doom. 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



339 



Then she stretch'd out her arms and 

cried aloud, 
"O Arthur " there her voice break 

suddenly, 
Then — as a stream that spouting from 

a cliff 
Fills in mid-air, but gathering at the 

base 
Re-makes itself, and flashes down the 

vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance. 

" Gone— my lord ! 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be 

slain ! 
And he forgave me, and I could not 

speak. 
Farewell ? I should have ansvv'er'd his 

farewell. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my 

lord the King, 
My own true lordl how dare I call 

him mine ? 
The shadow of another cleaves to me, 
And makes me one pollution : he, the 

King, 
Call'd me polluted : shall I kill my- 
self ? [sin, 
What help in that } I cannot kill my 
If soul be soul; nor can I kill my 

shame; 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to \yeeks, the weeks 

to months, 
The months will add themselves and 

make the years, 
The years wiU'roll into the centuries, 
And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 
I must not dwel on that defeat of 

fame. 
Let the world be; that is but of the 

world. 
What else ? what hope ? I think there 

was a hope. 
Except he mock'd me when he spake 

of hope ; 
His hope he call'd it; but he never 

mocks, 
For mockery is the fume of little 

hearts 
And blessed be the King, who hath 

forgiven 



My wickedness to him, and left me 

hope 
That in mine own heart I can live 
down sin 
'' And be his mate hereafter in the 
I heavens 

Before high God. Ah great and gen- 
1 tie lord. 

Who wast, as is the conscience of a 
! saint 

j Among his warring senses, to thy 
I knights — 

I To whom my false voluptuous pride, 
! that took 

1 Full easily all impressions from below, 
I Would not look up, or half-despised 
I the height 

i To which I v.ould not or I could not 
I climb — 

j I thought I could not breathe in that 
I fine air 

j That pure severity of perfect light — 

I wanted warmth and color which 1 
I found 

} In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou 
art. 
Thou art the highest and most human 
too, [none 

Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so 
late .> 
j Now — ere he goes to the great Battle ? 
none : 
Myself must tell him in that purer life, 
But now it were too daring. Ah my 

God, 
What might I not have made of thy 

fair world. 
Had I but loved thy highest creature 
here ? 
j It was my duty to have loved the high- 
I est : 

I It surely was my profit had I known : 
I It vvould have been my pleasure had I 
I seen. 

I We needs must love the highest when 
we see it. 
Not Lancelot, nor another." 

Here her hand 
Grasp'd, made her veil her eyes : she 
iook'd and saw 



340 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



The novice, weeping, suppliant, and 

said to her, 
" Yea, little maid, for am / not for- 



given r 



[nuns 



Tlien glancing up beheld the holy 
All round her, v/eeping; and her heart 

was loosed 
V>'illun her, and she wept widi these 

and said : 
' Ye know me then, that wicked one, 

who broke 
7'he vast design and purpose of the 

King. 

sliut me round with narrowing nun- 

nerv-vvalls. 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying 
' Shame.' ' x 

1 must not scorn myself: he loves me 

still. [still. 

Let no one dream but that he lotes me 
.So let me, if you do not shudder at me 
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with 

you : 
^Vear black and white, and be a nun 

like you ; 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with 

your feasts; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at 

your joys, 
But not rejoicing; mingle with yo^ir 

rites ; >"' 

Pray and be prayed for : lie before 

your shrines ; 
Do each low office of your holy house ; 
\Valk your dim cloister, and distribute 

dole 
To poor sick people, richer in his eves 
Vv^ho ransom'd us, and haler too than I ; 
And trent their loathsome hurts and 

heal mine own ; 
And 'SO wear out in almsdeed and in 

prayer 
The sombre close of that voluptuous 

day, 
Which wrought the ruin of my lord the 

King/' 

She said : they took her to them- 
selves , and she 
Still hoping, fearing ** Is it yet too 
late.?"^ 



Dwelt with them, till in time their 

Abbess died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her 

pure life, 
And for the power of ministration in 

her, 
And likewise for the high rank she had 

borne. 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess 

lived 
For three brief years, and there, an 

Abbess, past 
To where beyond these voices there is 

peace. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 

Long lines of cliff breaking have left 
a chasm ; 

And in the chasm are foam and yellow 
sands ; 

Beyond,, red roofs about a narrow 
- ' wlirarf 

In cluster; then a moulder'd church; 
, , and higher 

A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd 
nnll ; 

And liigh in heaven behind it a gray 
down 

V\'ith Danish barrows ^ and a hazel- 
wood, 

By aiitumn nutters haunted, flourishes 

Gr^n in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

I^re on this beach a hundred years 
ago, 

Three children of three houses, Annie 
Lee, 

The ]:)rettiest little damsel in the port, 

And Philip Ray, the miller's only son, 

And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's 
lad 

Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, 
play'd 

Among' the waste and lumber of the 
shore. 

Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing- 
nets, 

Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up* 
1 drawn : 



IDYLS OF THE ICING. 



341 



And built their castles of dissolving 
sand 

To watch them overflow'd, or follow- 
ing up 

And flying the white breaker, daily 
left 

The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the 

cliff: 
In this the children play'd at keeping 

house. 
.Enoch was host one day, Philip the 

next, 
While Annie still was mistress; but at 

times 
P^noch would hold possession for a 

week : 
" This is my house and this my little 

wife." 
" Mine too," said Philip, " turn and 

turn about : " 
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch 

stronger-made 
Was master : then would Philip, his 

blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of 

tears, 
Shriek out, " I hate you, Enoch," and 

at this 
The little wife would weep for com- 
pany, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her 

sake. 
And say she v^-ould be little wife to 

both. 

But when the dawn of rosy child- 
hood past. 

And the new warmth of life's ascend- 
ing sun • 

Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 

On that one girl ; and Enoch spoke his 
love, 

But Philip loved in silence; and the 
girl 

Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to 
him ; 

But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew 
it not. 

And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch 
set 



A purpose everm.ore before his eyes, 

To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 

To purchase his own boat, and make a 
home 

For Annie : and so prosper'd that at 
last 

A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 

A carefullcr in peril, did not breathe 

For leagues along that breaker-beaten 
coast 

Than Enoch. Likewise had he served 
a year 

On board a merchantman, and made 
himself 

Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd 
a life 

From the dread, sweep of the down- 
streaming seas : 

And all men look'd upon him favor- 
ably : 

And ere he touch'd his one-and-twen- 
tieth May, 

Pie purchased his own boat, and made 
a home [up 

For Annie, neat and nestlike, half-way 

The narrow street that clamber'd to- 
ward the mill. ,^ 

Then, on a golden auiuinn eventide. 
The younger people making holiday. 
With bag and sack and basket, great 

and small. 
Went nutting to the hazels, Philip 

stay'd 
(His father lying sick and needing 

him ) 
An hour behind; but as he climb'd the 

hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood 

began 
To feather tov.'ard the hollow, saw the 

pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-jn- 

hand. 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten 

face 
All-kindied by a still and sacred fire. 
That burned as on an altar. Philip 

look'd. 
And in their eyes and faces read his 

doom : 



342 



IDYLS OF THE KhVG. 



Then, as their faces drew together, 

groan'd 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded 

life 
Crept down into the hollows of the 

wood ; 
'I'here, while the rest were loud with 

merry-making, 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose 

and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang 

the bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy 

years, ' 
Seven happy years of health and oom- 

petence, 
And mutual love and honorable toil ; 
With children ; first a daughter. In 

him woke, [wish 

With his first babe's first cry, the noble 
To save all earnings to the uttermost, 
And give his child a better bringing- 

up 
Than his had been, or hers ; a wish 

renew'd, 
When two years after came a boy to 

be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes. 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful 

seas, 
Or often journeying landward; for in 

truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's 

ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
kough-redden'd with a thousand win- 
ter-gales. 
Not only to the market-cross were 

known. 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down. 
Ear as the portal-warding lion-whelp, 
«\nd peacock-yewtree of the lonely 
I Hall, 

\Whose Eriday fare was Enoch's minis- 
^ tering. 

Then came a change, as all things 
human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow 
port 



Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 
And once when there, and clambering 

on a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and 

fell ; 
A limb was broken when they lifted 

him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his 

wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one ; 
Another hand crept too across his 

trade 
Taking her bread and theirs : and on 

him fell, [man, 

Altlio' a grave and staid God-fearing 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and 

gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the 

night, 
To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth. 
And her, he loved, a beggar : then he 

pray'd 
" Save them from this, whatever comes 

to me." 
And while he pray'd, the master of 

that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mis- 
chance. 
Came, for he knew the man and valued 

him, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would 

he go .'' 
There yet were many weeks before she 

sail'd, 
Saii'd from this port. Would Enoch 

have the place ? 
And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicin*g at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance 

appear' d 
No graver than as when some little 

cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing : yet the 

wife — 
When he was gone — the children — 

what to do '' 



IDYLS OF THE KING, 



343 



Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his 
plans 

To sell the boat — and yet he loved her 
well — 

How many a rough sea had he weath- 
er'd in her ! 

He knew her, as a horseman knows 
his horse — 

And yet to sell her — then with what 
she brought 

Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth 
in trade 

With all that seamen needed or their 
wives — 

So might she keep the house while he 
was gone. 

vShould he not trade himself out yon- 
der? go 

This voyage more than once ? yea 
twice or thrice — 

As oft as needed— last, returning rich, 

Become the master of a larger craft, 

"With fuller profits lead an easier life. 

Have all his pretty young ones edu- 
cated, 

And pass his days in peace among his 
own 
Thus Enoch in his heart determined 
air _ 

Then moving homeward came on Annie 
pale, 

Nursing the sickly babe, her latest- 
born 

Forv;ard she started with a happy cry. 

And laid the feeble infant in his arms • 

Whom Enoch took, and handled all his 
limbs, 

Appraised his weight, and fondled 
fatherlike. 

But had no heart to break his purposes 

To Annie, till the morrow, when he 
spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring 

had girt 

fing 

will ; 

Yet not with brawling opposition she. 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear. 
Many a sad kiss by day by night re- 

new'd 



(Sure that all evil would come out of 

it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her. 
Her and her children, let her plead in 

vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it 
"thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea- 
friend. 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and 

set his hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting- 
room 
With shelf and corner for the goods 

and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at 

home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and 

axe. 
Auger and saw, while Annie secm'd to 

hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd 

and rang. 
Till this was ended, and his careful 

hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having order'd 

all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature 

packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; 

and he, s 
Who needs v/ould work for Annie to 

the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily '>lept till morn. 

And Enoch faced his morning of 
farewell 

Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's 
fears, 

Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to 
him. 

Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 

Bow'd himself down, and in that mys- 
tery 

Where God-in-man is one withman-in- 
God, 

Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and 
babes 



344 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Whatever came to him: and then he 

said, [God 

"Annie, this voyage by the grace of 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire 

for me, 
For ril be back, my girl, before you 

know it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, 

" and he, 
'J'his prcttv, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love 'him all the better for 

' it- 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my 

knees [parts. 

And I will tell him tales of foreign 
And make him merry when I come 

home again. 
Come Annie, come, cheer up before I 

go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she 
heard, 

And almost hoped herself ; but when 
he turn'd 

The current of his talk to graver things 

In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 

On providence and trust in Heaven, 
she heard. 

Heard and not heard him; as the vil- 
lage girl, 

Who sets her pitcher underneath the 
spring, 

]\Iusing on him that used to ftll it for 
her. 

Hears and not nears, and lets it over- 
flow. 

At length she spoke, " O Enoch, you 

are wise ; 
And yet for all vour wisdom well 

know I 
That I shall look upon your face no 

more." 

" Well then," said Enoch, " I shall 

look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day); get you a 

seaman's glass, 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your 

fears." 



But when the last of those last mo- 
ments came, 
"Annie, my girl, cheer up, be com- 
forted. 
Look to the babes, and till I come 

again. 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must 

go. 
And fear no more forme ; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that 

anchor holds. 
Is He not yoiuler in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning .? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him .'' and the sea is 

His, 
The sea is His ; He made it," 

Enoch rose. 
Cast his strong arms about his droop- 
ing wife. 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little 

ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who 

slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness. 
When Annie would have raised him 

Enoch said, 
" Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how 

should the child 
Remember this.?" and kiss'd him in 

his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead 

dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave :t : this he kept 
Thro' all his future ; but now hastily 

caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went 

his way. 



She when the day, that Enoch men- 
tion'd, came, 

Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : per- 
haps 

She could not fix the glass to suit her 
eye ; 

Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremu- 
lous ; 

She saw him not : and while he stood 
on deck 

Waving, the moment and the vessel 
past. 



IDYLS OF THE KING, 



345 



Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing 

sail 
She watch'd it, and departed \Yeeping 

for him ; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as 

his grave, [his, 

Set her sad will no less to chime with 
Li at throve not in her trade, not being 

bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies. 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 
And still foreboding " What woulcl 

Enoch say ? " 
For more than once, in days of ditnculty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares 

for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she 

sold : 
She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it ; 

and thus, 
.Expectant of that news which never 

came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly born 

and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for 

it 
With all a mother's care: nevertheless, 
Whether her business often called her 

from it. 
Or thro' the want of what is needed 

most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best 

could tell 
Vv'hat most it needed — howsoe'er it 

was, 
After alingering, — ere she was aware, — 
'!.ike the caged bird escaping suddenly, 
^i he little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie 

buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd^ur 

her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd 

upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so 

long. 



" Surely," said Phiiip, " I may see her 

now, '^ 

May be some little comfort ; " there- 
fore went, 
Past thro' the solitary room in front, 
Paused for a moment at an inner door. 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one 

opening, 
Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her 

grief. 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 
Cared not to look on any human face. 
Bat turn'd her own toward th-e wall and 

wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falter- 

ingly, 
" Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." 
He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd 

reply, 
'* Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! " half abash'd him ; yet un- 

ask'd. 
His bashf ulness and tenderness at war, 
Pie sits himself beside her, saying to 

her 

" I came to speak to you of what he 
wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband; I r.ave ever said 
I You chose the best among us — a strong 
] man : 

i For where he fixt his heart he set his 
i hand 

i To do the thing he wili'd, and bore it 
I thro'. [way, 

I And wherefore did he go this weary 
j And leave you lonely ? not to see the 
I world — 

1 For pleasure .'' — nay, but for the w^here- 
withal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that w-as 

his wish. 
And if he comes again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours 

were lost. 
And it would vex him even in his grave. 
If he could know his babes were run- 
ning wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, 
I no\v — 



34^ 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



Have we not known each other all our 

jives ? 
I do beseech yon bv the love you bear 
Mim an:l his children not to say me 

nny — 
For, il^ vol; will, when Enoch comes 

attain 
Why "then he shall repay you— if you 

will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to 

school : 
This is the favor I came to ask." 

^ ■ , , 

Then Annie with her brows agamst 
the wall 

Answer'd, " I cannot look you in the 
face , 

I seem so foolish and so broken down ; 

When you came in my sorrow broke 
me down ; 

And now I think your kindness breaks 
me down ; 

But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on 
me ; 

He will repay you : m.oney can be re- 
paid ; 

Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 
"Then you will let me, Annie f' 

There she turn'd, 
She rose and fixt her swimming eyes 

upon him, 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face. 
Then callmg down a blessing on his 

head 
Caught at his hand and wrung it pas- 
sionately, 
An({ past mto the little garth beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to 

school, 
And bought them needful books, and 

every way. 
Like one who does his duty by his own. 
Made himself theirs; and ' tho' for 

Annie's sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 



He oft denied his heart his dearest 

wish. 
And seldom crossed her threshold, yet 

he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and 

fruit. 
The late and early roses from his wall. 
Or conies from the down, and now and 

then, [meal 

With some pretext of finenes.-j in the 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the 

waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's 

mind . 
Scarce could the woman when he came 

upon her. 
Out of full heart and boundless grati- 
tude 
Light on a broken word to thank him 

with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; 
From distant corners of the street they 

ran 
To greet his hearty welome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were 

they ; 
V/orried his passive ear with petty 

wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd 

with him 
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip 

gain'd [them 

As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seemed to 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream. 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue, 
Going ye know not where; and so ten 

years. 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native 

land. 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch 

came. 
It chanced one evening Annie's chil- 
dren long'd 
To go with others, nutting to the wood. 
And Annie would go with them ; then 

they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) 

too 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



347 



Him like the working bee in blossom- 

» dust, 

Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and 

saying to him, 
" Come with us Father Philip," he 

denied ; 
But when the children pluck'd at him 

to go, 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their 

wish, 
For was not Annie with them ? and 

they went. 

-J 

But after scaling half the weary down, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood 

began 
To feather toward the hollov/, all her 

force 
Fail'd her; and sighing '' Let merest " 

she said : 
So Philip rested with her well-content; 
While all the younger ones with jubi- 
lant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumul- 

tuously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made 

a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent 

or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear 

away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each 

other 
And calling, here and there, about the 

wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and rem.ember'd one 

dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded 

life _ [said 

He crept into the shadow : at last he 
Lifting his honest forehead, ' Listen, 

Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in 

the wood." 
" Tired, Annie ? " for she did not speak 

a word. 
** Tired 1 " but her face hadfall'n upon 

her hands ; 
At which, as wi'h a kind of anger in 

him, 



•^ The ship was lost," he said, '* the 

ship \vas lost ! 
No more of that ! why should you kill 

yourself 
And make them orphans quite ? " And 

Annie said, 
" I thought not of it : but — I know not 

why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer 

spoke. 
" Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long, 
That tho' I know not when it first came 

there, 
I know that it will out at last. O 

Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 
That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living; well then — let 

me speak : 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting 

help : 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so 

quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have 

you know — 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would 

prove 
A father to your children ; I do think 
They love me as a father : I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine 

own ; 
And I believe, if you v/ere fast my wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain'years. 
We might be still as happy as God 

grants [it : 

To any of his creatures. Think upon 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care. 
No burthen, save my care for you and 

yours : 
And we have known each other all our 

lives, 
And I have loved you longer than you 

knovv^." 

Then ansv/er'd Annie ; tenderly she 
spoke : 
ou have 
in our house. 



348 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



God bless you for it, God reward you 

for it, 
Philip, with something happier than 

myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever 

loved 
As Enoch was ? what is it that you 

ask?" 
" I am content," he answer'd, " to be 

loved 
A little after Enoch." " O, she cried, 
Scared as it were, '' dear Philip, wait a 

while : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not 

come — 
Yet w^ait a year, a year is not so long : 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a little ! " Philip sadly said, 
" Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little." " Nay," she 

cried, 
*' I am bound ; you have my promise — 

in a year : 
Will you not bide your year as I bide 

mine ? " 
And Philip ansv/er'd, " I will bide my 

year." 

Here both were mute, till Philip 

glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow over- 
head ; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie 

rose. 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' 

the w^ood. 
Up came the children laden with their 

spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and 

there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave 

his hand, 
Saying gently, " Annie, when I spoke 

to you, 
That was your hour of weakness. I 

was wrong. 
I am always bound to you, but you are 

free."' 
Then Annie weeping answer'd, " I am 

bound." 



She spoke ; and in one moment as it 

were, 
While yet she went about her house- 
hold ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 
That he had loved her longer than she 

knew, 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again. 
And there he stood once more before 

her face. 
Claiming her promise. •" Is it a year ? " 

she ask'd. 
" Yes, if the nuts," he said, " be ripe 

again : 
Come out and see." But she — she put 

him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — a 

month — 
Give her a monih — she knew that she 

was bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip with 

his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his 

voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
" Take your own time, Annie, take 

your own time." 
And Annie could have wept for pity of 

him ; 
And yet she lield him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long sufferance 
Till half-another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle 

with her ; 
Some that she but held off to draw him 

on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip 

too. 
As simple folk that knew not their own 

minds ; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
I Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
! Would hint at worse in either. Her 

own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his 

wush : 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



349 



But evermore the daughter prest upon 

her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 
Careworn and wan ; and all these things 

fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but ear- 
nestly 
Pray'd for a sign " my Enoch, is he 

gone ? " 
Then compass'd round by the blind 

wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her 

heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a 

light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
" Under a palmtree.," That was noth- 
ing to her . 
No meaning ihere: she closed the book 

and slept ; 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height 
Under a palmtree, over him the Sun ; 
" He is gone," she thought, " he is 

happ}', he is singing 
Hosannain the highest; yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these 

be palms 
Whereof the happy people strewing 

cried 
' Hosanna in the highest!'" Here 

she woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly 

to him, 
" There is no reason why we should 

not wed." 
" Then for God's sake," he answer'd, 

" both our sakes, 
So you will wed me. let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang 

the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were 

wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart 



A footstep seem'd to fall beside her 

path, 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on 

her ear, 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to 

be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she en- 

ter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch 
Fearing to enter ; Philip thought he 

knew ; 
Such doubts and fears were common to 

her state. 
Being with child; but when her child 

was born, 
Then her new child was as herself 

renew'd. 
Then the new mother came about her 

heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 
And that mysterious instinct wholly 

died. 

And where was Enoch ? Prosper- 
ously sail'd 
The ship " Good Fortune," tho' at 

setting forth 
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastv^•are^, 

shook 
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet un- 

vext 
She slipt across the summer of the 

vvorld. 
Then after a long tumble about the 

Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and 

fair. 
She passing thro' the summer world 

again, 
The breath of Heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden 

isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and 

bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of 

those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 



350 



IDYLS OF THE KIiXG. 



Less lucky her home-voyage ; at- first 
indeed 

Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, 

Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure- 
head 

Stared o'er the ripple feathering from, 
her bows ; 

Then follow'd calms, and then winds 
variable, 

Tlien baffling, a long course of them; 
and last 

Storm, such as drove her under moon- 
less heavens 

Till hard upon the cry of " breakers " 
came 

The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 

But Enoch and two others. Half the 
night, 

Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken 
spars. 

These drifted, stranding on an isle at 
morn 

Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 
No want was there of human suste- 
nance. 

Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourish- 
ing roots ; 

Nor save for pity was it hard to take 

Th*e helpless life so wild that it was 
tame. 

There in a scavvavd-gazing mountain- 
gorge 

They built, and thatch'd with leaves of 
palm, a hut, 

Half hut, half native cavern. So the 
three. 

Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 

Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest hardly more 
than boy, j 

Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and 
wreck, [in-life. 

Lay lingering out a three-years' death- 

They could not leave him. After he 
was gone. 

The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 

And Enoch's comrade, careless of him- 
self. 

Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, 
fell 



Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 
In those two deaths he read God's 
warning " wait." 



The mountain wooded to the peak* 
the lawns 

And winding glades high up like ways 
to Heaven, 

The slender coco's drooping crown of 
plumes, 

The lightning flash of insect and of 
bii-d, 

The lustre of the long convolvuluses 

That coil'd around the stately stems, 
and ran 

Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 

And glories of the broad belt of the 
world. 

All these he saw; but what he fain had 
seen 

He could not see, the kindly human 
face, 

Nor ever heard a kindly voice, but 
heard 

The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean- 
fowl, 

The league-long roller thundering on 
the reef, 

The moving whisper of huge trees that 
branch'd 

And blossom'd in the zenith, or the 
sweep 

Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 

As down the shore he ranged, or all 
day long 

Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 

A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail ; 

No sail from day to day, but every day 

The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 

Among the palms and ferns and preci- 
pices; 

The blaze upon the waters to the east ; 

The blaze upon his island overhead; 

The blaze upon the waters to the west; 

Then the great stars that globed them- 
selves in Heaven, 

The hollower-bellowing ocean, and 
again 

The scarlet shafts of sunrise-— but no 
sail, 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



351 



There often as he watch'cl or seem'd i Came suddenly to an. end. Anothei 

to watch, 
So Gtill, the golden lizard on him 

paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms 

moved 
Before him haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things and 

places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the 

small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy 

lanes, 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely 

Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, 

the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming 

downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying 

leaves, 
And the low moan of leadencolor'd 

seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his 

ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily— far and far 

away— 
He heard the pealing of his parish 

bells ; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, 

started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous 

hateful isle 
Return'd upon him, had not his poor 

heart 
Spoken with That, which being every- 
where 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem 

all alone. 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering 
head 



ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling 

winds 
Like the Good Fortune, from her des- 
tined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where 

she lay : 
For since the mate had seen at early 

dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen ' 

isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills. 
They sent a crew that landing burst 

away 
In search of stream or fount, and fill'd 

the shores 
With clamor. Downward from his 

mountain gorge 
Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded soli- 
tary, [clad, 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely 
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it 

seem'd, 
With inarticulate rage, and making 

signs 
They knew not what : and yet he led 

Uie way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water 

ran ; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talldng, his long-boun- 

den tongue 
Was loosen'd, till he made them under- 
stand ; 
Whom, when their casks were flU'd 

they took aboard: 
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, 
Scarce credited at first, but more and 

more 
Amazed and melted all who listen'd to 

It : 
And clothes they gave him and free 

passage home 



The sunny and rainy seasons came and ! But oft he work'd among the rest and 



went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his 

own. 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields. 
Not yet had perish' d, when his lonely 

^oom 



shook 

His isolation from him. None of these 
Came from his county, or could an- 
swer him. 
If questioned, aught of what he cared to 
know. 



352 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



And dull the voyage was with long de- 
lays, 
The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but ever- 
more 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 
He like a lover down thro' all his blood 
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning- 
breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly 
wall : [men 

And that same morning officers and 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves. 
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him 

' it : 
Then moving up the coast they landed 

him, 
Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd 
before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any 

one, 
But homeward, — home, — what home ? 

had he a home ? 
His home he walk'd. Bright was that 

afternoon, 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either 

chasm, 
Where either haven open'd on the 

deeps, 
Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the 

world in gray: 
Cut off the length of highway on be- 
fore, 
And left but narrow breadth to left and 

right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping 

haze 
The dead weight of the dead haf bore 

it down : 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the 

gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted 

light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the 

place. 

Then down the lor.g street having 
slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 



His eyes upon the stones, he rcach'd 

the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and 

his babes 
In those far-off seven happy yea^swere 

born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur 

there 
(A bill of salegleam'd thro' the drizzle) 

crept 
Still downward thinking '* dead or dead 

to me I " 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf 

he went. 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity, 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old. 
He thought it must have gone ; but he 

was gone 
Who kept it : and his widow, Miriam 

Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the 

house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but 

now 
Stiller with yet a bed for wandering 

men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and gar- 
rulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in, 
Told him, with other annals of the port. 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so 

bow'd, 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her litUe ones to school. 
And kept them in it, his long wooing 

her, 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and 

the birth 
Of Philip's child; and o'er his coun- 
tenance 
No shadow past, nor motion ; any one. 
Regarding, well had deera'd he felt the 

tale 
Less than the teller : only when she 

closed, 
" Enoch, poor man, was cast awav and 
lost," 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



353 



He shaking his gray head pathetically, 
Repeated mnttering *' Cast away and 

lost ; " _ ' 

AG;ain in deeper inward \Yhispers 

" Lost ! ''' 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face 

again; 
"If I might look on her sweet face 

again 
And know that she is happy." So the 

thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove 

him forth 
At evening when the dull November 

day 
"Was grow-ing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below: 
There did a thousand memories roll 

upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's 

house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the 

street, 
The latest house to landward ; but be- 
hind, 
With one small gate thatopen'd on the 

waste, 
Flourish'd a little garden square and 

\yal_l'd : 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a vv^alk divided it : 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk 

and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yev/ ; and 

thence 
That which he better might have 

shmm'd, if griefs 
Like his have W'orse or better, Enoch 

saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish'd 
board 
Sparkled and shone : so genial w^as the 
hearth ; 

23 



And on the right hand of the hearth he 

saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times. 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his 

knees " 
And o'er her second father stoopt a 

girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted 

hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his 

creasy arms, 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and thev 

laugh'd : ' 
And on the left hand of the hearth he 

saw 
The mother glancing often towards her 

babe. 
But turning now^ and then to speak with 

him, 
Her son, who stood before her tall and 

strong. 
And saying that which pleased him, for 

he smiled. 

Now^ when the dead man come to life 

beheld 
His vvife his wife no more, and saw the 

. babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's 

knee. 
And all the warmth, the peace, the 

happiness, 
And his own children tall and beau- 
tiful, 
And him, that other, reigning in his 

place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's 

love, — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told 

him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than 

things heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the 

branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry. 
Which in one moment, like the blast of 

doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of the 

hearth. 



354 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



He therefore turning softly like a 

thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate 

underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and 

be found, 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and 

closed, 
As lightly as a sick-man's chamber-door. 
Behind him, and came out upon the 

waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but 

that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he 

dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and 

pray'd. 

"Too hard to bear! why did they 

take me thence ? 
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, 

Thou . [isle. 

That didst uphold me on liiy^ lonely 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer! aid me, give me 

strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her 

peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to 

these ? 
They know me not. I should betray 

myself. [girl 

Never': no father's kiss for me, — the 
So like her mother, and the boy, my 

son." 

There speech and thought ar.d nature 

fail'd a little, 
And he lay tranced : but when he rose 

and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again, 
All down the narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain. 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
"Not to tell her, never to let her 

know." 

He was not all unhappy. His re- 
solve 



Upbore him, and firm faith, and ever- 
more 

Prayer from a living source within the 
will. 

And beating up thro' all the bitter 
world, 

Like fountains of sweet water in the 
sea, 

Kept him a li\'ing soul. " This miller's 
wife," [of, 

ITe said to Miriam, " that you told me 

Has she no fear that her first husband 
lives?" 

*' Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, 
"fear enow ! 

If you could tell her you had seen him 
dead, 

Why, that would be her comfort : " 
and he thought, 

"After the Lord has call'd me she 
shall know, 

I wait his time," and Enoch set him- 
self. 

Scorning an alms, to work whereby to 
live. 

Almost to all things could he turn his 
hand. 

Cooper he was and carpenter, and 
wrought 

To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or 
help'd 

At lading and unlading the tall barks, 

That brought the stinted commerce of 
those days : 

Thus earn'd a scanty living for him- 
self: 

Yet since he did but labor for himself, 

Work without hope, there was not life 
in it 

Whereby the man could live ; and as 
the year [day 

RoU'd itself round again to meet the 

When Enoch had return'd, a languor 
came 

Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 

Weakening the man, till he could do 
no more. 

But kept the house, his chair, and last 
his bed. 

And Enoch bore his weakness cheer- 
fully. 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



355 



For sure no gladlier does the stranded 

wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting 

squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life 

approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he 

saw 
I .'cath dawning on him, and the close 

of all. 

Vox thro' that dawning gleam'd a 

kindlier hope 
^ >n Enoch thinking, "After I am gone, 
'ITicn may she learn I loved her to the 

last." 
lie call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and 

said, 
" Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the 

book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me 

dead." 
"Dead," clamor'd the good woman, 

" hear him talk ! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring 

you round." 
" Swear," added Enoch, sternly, " on 

the book." 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam 

swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon 

her, 
"Did you know Enoch Arden of this 

town ? " 
" Know him ? " she said, " I knew him 

far away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the 

street ; 
Held his head high, and cared for no 

man, he." 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her ; 
" His head is low, and no man cares 

for him. 
I think I have not three days more to 

live ; 
I am the man." At v/hich the woman 

gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 
" You Arden, you ! nay,—sure he was 

a foot • 



Higher than you be." Enoch said 

again, 
"My God has bow'd me down to what 

I am ; 
My grief and solitude have broken me ; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has 

twice been changed — 
I married her who married Philip Ray. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his 

voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming 

back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
And how he kept it. As the woman 

heard. 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy 

tears. 
While in her heart she yearn'd inces- 
santly 
To rush abroad all round the little 

haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his 

woes ; 
But awed and promise-bounden she 

forbore, 
Saying only, " See your bairns before 

you go ! 
Eh, let me fetch 'm, Arden," and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch 

hung 
A moment on her words, but then re- 
plied : 

" Woman, disturb me not now at the 

last, 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again ; mark me and under- 
stand, 
While I have power to speak. I 

charge you now. 
When you shall see her, tell her that I 

died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving 

her; 
Save for the bar between us, loving 

her 
As when she laid her head beside my 

own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I 

saw 



35^ 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



So like her mother, that my latest 

breath 
"Was spent in blessing her and praying 

for her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing 

him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
He never meant us anything but good. 
lUit if my children care to see me 

dead, 
Vv'ho hardly knew me living, let them 

come, 
I am their father; but she must not 

come, 
For my dead face would vex her after- 
life. 
And now there is but one of all my 

blood. 
Who will embrace me in the world-to- 
be : 
This hair is his: she cut it off and gave 

it, 
And I have borne it with me all these 

years. 
And thought to bear it with me to my 

grave ; I 

But now my mind is changed, for I ! 

shall see him, ' 

My babe in bliss : wherefore when I i So past the strong heroic soul away. 

am gone, i And when they buried him the littl6 

Take, give her this, for it may comfort | port 

her; \ Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 



It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he." 



He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising 

all. 
That once again he roll'd his eyes upon 

her 
Repeating all he wish'd, and once 

again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and 

pale,_ 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at in- 
tervals. 
There came so loud a calling of the 

sea. 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms 

abroad 
Crying with a loud voice "A sail! a 

sail! 
I am saved;" and so fell back and 

spoke no more. 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



357 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

AYLMER'S FIELD. ' Whose eyes from under a pyramidal 

head 

Saw from his windows nothing save 

^793- I hi sown— 

c ^^ . ^„j nW^f^A What lovelier of his own had he than 

Dust are our frames; and, gil-^ed j ^^^ 

dust, our pride 

noment whole and v^'-^ 
, I loved 

Like'Tat' long-buried body of the As heiress ^and not heir regretfully'^ 

Found lying with his urns and orna- | -pi^j,"^'^^^ 

id wife 



her. 
Looks only for a moment whole and , "is ^onlv child, his Edith, whom he 

But " he that marries her marries her 

name," 
This fiat somewhat soothed himself 



ments, 
Which at a touch of light, an air of : ^.^ ^^.,^ ^ ^^^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^,,^^^ 

Slipt inir'ashes and was found no j Insipid as the Queen upon a card; 
ojipi luiu rtoi.co diiu j^^j. „|j ^£ thought and bearmg hardlv 

"^°^^- more - ^ 

, ' Than his own shadow in a sicklv sun. 
Here is a story which m rougher i 
shape _ I A land of hops and poppy-nungled 

Came from a grizzled cripple, v/hom I I corn, 

saw ! Little about it stirring save a brook ! 

Sunning himself in a waste field A sleepy land where under the same 



alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories— who 

had served. 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the 

place, 
And been himself a part of what he 

told. 



wheel 
The same old rut would deepen year 

by year ; 
Where almost all the village had one 

name ; 
Where Aylmer follow'd Avlmer at the 

Hall 
And Averill Averill at the Rectory 
Sir Aylmer Aylmer, that almighty 1 Thrice over; so that Rectory and 

Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacy, 
Were open to each other; tho' to 

dream 
That Love could bind them closer well 

had made [up 

The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle 



The county God — in whose capacious 
hall. 

Hung with a hundred shields, the fam- 
ily tree - 

Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate 
king — 

Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd . With horror, worse than had he heard 
the spire, ' ! his priest 

Stood from his walls and wing'd his , Preach an inverted scripture, sons of 
entry-gates • j men 

And swang besides on many a windy Daughters of God; so sleepy was the 
sign — I land, 



358 



A YLMER'S FIELI^. 



And might not Averill,had he will'd 
it so, 

Somewhere beneath his own low range 
of roof.«;, 

Have also set his many-shielded tree ? 

There was an Aylmer-Averill marriage 
once, 

When the red rose was redder than it- 
self, 

And York's white rose as red as Lan- 
caster's, 

With wounded peace which each had 
prick'd to death. 

" JS'ot proven," Averill said, or laugh- 
ingly, 

" Some other race of A verills " — jjrov'n 
or no, 

^Vhat cared he ? what, if other or the 
same ? [self. 

lie lean'd not on his fathers but him- 

But Leolin, his brother, living oft 

With Averill, and a year or two be- 
fore 

Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 

By one low voice to one dear neighbor- 
hood, 

Would often, in his walks with Edith, 
claim 

A distant kinship to the gracious blood 

That shook the heart of Edith hearing 
him. 

Sanguine he was : a but less vivid 

hue [bloom 

Than of that islet in the chestnut- 
P^lamed in his cheek; and eager eyes, 

that still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, 

beam'd, [gold, 

Beneath a manelike mass of rolling 
Their best and brightest, when they 

dwelt on hers, 
Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect 

else, 
But subject to the season or the 

mood, 
Shone like a mystic star between the 

less 
And greater glory varying to and fro, 
We know not wherefore ; bounteously 

made, 



And yet so finely, that a troublous 
touch 

Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in 
a day, 

A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 

And these had been together from the 
first. 

Lcolin's first nurse was, five years 
after, hers : 

So much the boy foreran; but wlien 
his date 

Doubled her own, for want of play- 
mates, he 

(Since Averill was a decade and a half 

I lis elder, and their parents under- 
ground) 

Had tost his ball and flown his kite, 
and roll'd [dipt 

His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her 

Against the rush of the air in the prone 
swing. 

Made blossom-ball or daisy chain, ar- 
ranged 

Her garden, sow'd her name and kept 
it green 

In living letters, told her fair3--tales, 

Show'd her the fairy footings on the 
grass, 

The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, 

The i^etty marestail forest, fairy pines, 

Or from the tiny pitted target blew 

What look'd a flight of fairy arrows 
aim'd 

All at one mark, all hitting: make-be- 
lieves 

For Edith and himself : or else he 
forged, 

Ikit that was later, boyish histories 

Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, 
wreck, 

Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and 
true love 

Crown'd after trial ; sketches rude and 
faint'. 

But where a passion yet unborn per- 
haps 

Lay hidden as the music of the moon 

Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightin- 
gale. 

And thus together, save for college^ 
times 



A YLMER'S FIELD, 



359 



Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 

As ever painter painted, poet sang, 

Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, 
grew. 

And more and more, the maiden wo- 
man-grown. 

He wasted hours with Averill ; there, 
when first 

The tented winter-field was broken up 

Into that phalanx of the summer 
spears 

That soon should wear the garland; 
there again 

When burr and bine were gather'd : 
lastly there 

At Christmas; ever welcome at the 
Hall, 

On whose dull sameness his full tide 
of youth 

Broke with a phosphorescence cheer- 
ing even [laid 

My lady; and the Baronet yet had 

No bar between, them ; dull and self- 
involved, 

Tall and erect, but bending from his 
height [world. 

With half-allowing smJles for all the 

And mighty courteous in the main — 
his pride [ring — 

Lay deeper than to Vv'ear it as his 

He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, 

Would care no more for Leolin's walk- 
ing with her 

Than for his old Newfoundland's, when 
they ran 

To loose him at the stables, for he rose 

Tv»'ofooted at the limit of his chain, 

Roaring to make a third ; and how 
should Love, 

Whom the cross-lightnings of four 
chance-met eyes 

Flash into fiery life from nothing, 
follow 

Such dear familiarities of dawn ? 

Seldom, but when he does, Master of 
all. 

So these young hearts not knowing 
that they loved, 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a 
bar 



Between them, nor by plight or broken 

ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, but oft accompanied 
By Averill : his, a brother's love, that 

hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er 

her peace. 
Might have been other, save for 

Leolin's — 
Who knows? but so they wander'd, 

hour by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, 

and drank 
The magic cup that filled itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to her- 
self. 
For out beyond her lodges, where the 

brook 
Vocal, with here and there a silence, 

ran 
By sallovvy rims, arose the laborers' 

homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low 

knobs 
That dimpling died into each other, 

huts 
At random, scatter'd, each a nest in 

bloom. 
Her art, her hand, her counsel all had 

wrought 
About them : here was one that, sum- 

mer-blanch'd, 
W^as parcel-bearded with the traveller's 

joy 
In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad; and here 
The warm blue breathings of a hidden 

hearth 
Broke from a bower of vine and honey- 
suckle : 
One look'd all rosetree, and another 

wore [stars : 

A close-set robe of jasmine sown with 
This had a rosy sea of gilly-fiowers 
About it : this a milky way on earth. 
Like visions in the Northerndreamer's 

heavens, 
A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ; 
One, almost to the martin-haunted 

eaves 



36o 



A YLMEIi'S FIELD. 



A summer burial deep in hollyhocks ; 
Each, its 'own charm; and Edith's 

everywhere ; 
And Edith ever visitant with him, 
lie but less loved than Edith, of her 

poor : 
l"or she — so lowly-lovely and so loving, 
Queenly responsive when the loyal 

hand 
K'jse from the clay it work'd in as she 

past, 
Not sowing hedgerow texts and pass- 
ing by. 
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a 

height [voice 

That makes the lowest hate it, but a 
Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
A splendid presence flattering the poor 

roofs 
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than 

themselves 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored ; 
lie, loved for her and for himself. A 

grasp 
Having the warmth and muscle of the 

heart, 
A childly way with children, and a 

laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage 

true. 
Were no false passport to that easy 

realm, 
Where once with Leolin at her side 

the girl, 
Nursing a child, and turning to the 

warmth 
The tender pink five-beaded baby-soles, 
Heard the good m.other softly whisper 

"Bless, 
God bless 'em ; marriages are made in 

Heaven." 



A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to 
her. 

My Lady's Indian kinsman unan- 
nounced 

With half a score of swarthy faces 
came. 

His own, tho' keen and bold and sol- 
dierly, 



Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not 

fair; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the 

hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful : so when first 

he dash'd 
Into the chronicle of a deedful dav. 
Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 
Of patron " Good ! my lady's kinsman! 

good ! " 
jNIy lady with ner fingers intei'lock'd. 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen : unawares they flitted off. 
Busying themselves about the flower- 
age 
That stood from out a stiff brocade in 

which. 
The meteor of a splendid season, she. 
Once with this kinsman, ah so long 

ago, 
Stept thro' the stately minuet of those 

days: 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with 

him 
Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of 

his life : 
Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye 
Hated him with a momentary hate. 
Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was 

he : 
I know not, for he spoke not, only 

shower'd 
His oriental gifts on every one, 
And most on Edith; like a storm he 

came. 
And shook the house, and like a stc; m 
he w^ent. 

Among the gifts he left her (possioiy 
He flow^'d and ebb'd uncertain, to re- 
turn 
When others had been tested) there 

was one, 
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels 

on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd 

itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not whence 
at first, 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



3^1 



Nor of what race, the work ; but as he 

told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of 

thieves 
He got it ; for their captain after fight, 
His comrades having fought their last 

below, 
Was climbing up the valley; at whom 

he shot : 
Down from the beetling crag to which 

he clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 
This dagger with him, which when 

now admired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to 

please, 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to 

her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was 

gone, 
Tost over all her presents petulantly: 
And when she show'd the wealthy 

scabbard, saying 
" Look what a lovely piece of work- 
manship ! " 
Slight was his answer, " Well — I care 

not for it ; " 
Then playing with the blade he prick'd 

his hand, 
'■'A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! " 
" But v.'ould it be more gracious," 

ask'd the girl, 
" Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is no lady?" " Gracious? No," 

said he. 
" Me ! — but I cared not for it. O par- . 

don me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself." 
" Take it," she added sweetly, " iho' 

his gift ; ' [you, 

For I am more ungracious e'en than 
I care not for it either; " and he said 
" Why then I love it : " but Sir Aylmer 

past, 
And neither loved nor liked the thing 

he heard. 

The next day came a neighbor. Blues 
and reds 
They talk'd of : blues were sure of it, 
he thought : 



Then of the latest fox — where started — 

kill'd 
In such a bottom : '' Peter had the 

brush. 
My Peter, first:" and did Sir Aylmer 

know 
That great pock-pitten fellow had been 

caught ? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to 

hand, [of it 

And rolling as it were the substance 
Between his palms a moment up and 

down — 
" The birds were warm, the birds were 

warm upon him ; 
We have him now : " and had Sir 

Aylmer heard — 
Nay, but he must — the land was ring- 
ing of it — 
This blacksmith-border marriage — one 

they knew — 
Raw from the nursery — who could 

trust a child ? 
That cursed France with her egalities ! 
And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 
With nearing chair and iower'd accent) 

think— 
For people talk'd — that it was wholly 

wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averill 

walk 
So freely with his daughter ? oeople 

talk'd— 
The boy might get a notion into him ; 
The girl might be entangled ere she 

knew. 
Sir Aylmer 'Aylmer slowly stiffening 

spoke : 
" The girl and boy, Sir, know their 

differences ! " 
" Good," said his friend, " but watch ! " 

and he " Enough, 
More than enough, Sir ! I can guard 

my own." 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer 

watch'd. 

Pale, for on her the thunders of the 
house 
Had fallen first, was Edith that same 
night : 



362 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



Pale as the Jephllia's daughter, a 
rough piece 

Of early rigid color, under which, 

Withdrawing by the counter door to 
that 

Which Leolin -opcn'd, she cast back 
upon him 

A piteous glance, and vanish'd. He, 
as one 

Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, 

And pelted with outrageous epithets, 

Turning beheld the Powers of the 
House 

On either side the hearth, indignant ; 
her, 

Cooling her false cheek with a feather- 
fan, 

Him glaring, by his own stale devil 
spurr'd. 

And, like a beast hard-ridden, breath- 
ing hard. 

" Ungenerous, dishonorable, base, 

Presmnptuous ! trusted as he was with 
her, 

The sole succeeder to their wealth, 
their lands, 

The last rem.aining pillar of their 
house, 

The one transmitter of their ancient 
name. 

Their child/' "Our child!" " Our 
heiress ! " " Ours ! " for still, 

Like echoes from beyond a hollow, 
came 

Her sicklier iteration. Last he said 

" Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes are 
to make. 

I swear you shall not make them out 
of mine. 

Now inasmuch as you have practised 
on her, 

Perplext her, m.ade her half forget her- 
self, [us — 

Swerve from her duty to herself and 

Things in an Aylmer deem'd impos- 
sible. 

Far as we track ourselves — I sa.y that 
this,— 

Else I withdraw favor and countenance 

From you and yours forever — shall 
you do. 



Sir, when you see her — but you shall 

not see her — 
No, you shall write, and not to her, 

but me : 
And you shall say that having spoken 

with me, 
And after look'd into yourself, you 

find 
That you meant nothing — as indeed 

you know 
That you meant nothing. Such a 

match as this ! 
Impossible, prodigious ! " These were 

words, 
As meted by his measure of himself, 
Arguing boundless forbearance : after 

which, 
And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, 

"I 
So foul a traitor to myself and her, • 
Never, O never," for about as long 
As the wind-hover hangs in balance, 

paused 
Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm 

within. 
Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and 

crying 
'* Boy, should I find you by my doors 

again 
My men shall lash you from them like 

a dog; 
Hence ! " with a sudden execration 

drove 
The footstool from before him, and 

arose ; 
So, stammering "scoundrel" out of 

teeth that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin 

still 
Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old 

man 
Follow'd, and under his own lintel 

stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary 

face 
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, 

but now, 
Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd 

moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness, and de- 

form'd. 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



363 



Slowly and conscious of the rageful 

eye 
That watch'd him, till he heard the 

ponderous door 
Close, crashing with long echoes thro' 

the land, 
Went Leolin ; then, his passions all in 

flood 
And masters of his motion, furiously 
Down thro' the bright lawns to his 

brother's ran. 
And foam'd away his heart at Averill's 

ear : 
Whom Ave rill solaced as he might, 

amazed : 
The man was his, had been his father's, 

friend : 
He must h'ave seen, himself had seen 

it long; 
He must have kno\yn, himself had 

known: besides, 
He never yet had set his daughter 

forth 
Here in the woman-markets of the 

west, 
Where our Caucasians let themselves 

be sold. 
Some one, he thought, had slander'd 

Leolin to him. 
" Brother, for I have loved you more 

as son 
Than brother, let me tell you : I my- 
self — 
What is their pretty saying "i jilted, is 

it? 
Jilted I was : I say it for your peace. 
"Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the 

shame 
The woman should have borne, humil- 
iated, 
I lived for years a stunted sunless life ; 
Till after our good parents past away 
Watching your growth, I setm'd again 

to grow. 
Leolin, I almost sin in envying you : 
The very whitest lamb in all my fold 
Loves you : I know her : the worst 

thought she has 
Is whiter even than her pretty hand : 
She must prove true : for, brother 

where two fight 



The strongest wins,- and truth and love 

are strength, 
And you are happy : let her parents 

be." 

But Leolin cried out the more upon 
them — 

Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, 
wealth. 

Their wealth, their heiress! wealth 
enough was theirs 

For twenty matches. Were he lord of 
this, 

Why twenty boys and girls should 
marry on it, 

And forty blest ones bless him, and 
himself 

Be wealthy still, ay wealthier He 
believed 

This filthy marriage-hindering Mam- 
mon made 

The harlot of the cities ; nature crost 

Was mother of the foul adulteries 

That saturate soul with body. Name, 
too ! name, 

Their ancient name ! they might be 
proud ; its worth 

Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she 
had look'd • 

Darling, to-night ! they must have 
rated her 

Beyond all tolerance. These old phea- 
sant-lords. 

These partridge-breeders of a thousand 
years, 

Who had mildew'd in their thousands, 
doing nothing 

Since Egbert — why, the greater their 
disgrace ! 

Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in 
that ! 

Not keep it noble, make it nobler ? 
fools, 

With such a vantage-ground for noble- 
ness ! 

He had known a man, a quintessence 
. of man, 

The life of all — who madly loved — and 
he, 

Thwarted by one of these old father- 
fools. 



3^4 



A YLMEKS FIELD. 



Had rioted his life out, and made an 

end. 
He would not do it ! her sweet face 

and faith 
Held him from that : but he had 

powers, he knew it : 
Back would he to his studies, make a 

name, 
Name, fortune too : the world should 

ring of him 
To shame these mouldy Aylmers in 

their graves : 
Chancellor, or what is greatest would 

he be — 
" O brother, I am grieved to learn 

your grief — 
Give me my fling, and let me sav my 

say." 

At which, like one that sees his own 

excess, 
And easily forgives it as his own. 
He laugh'd ; and then was mute ; but 

presently 
Wept like a storm : and honest Averill 

seeing 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, 

fetch'd 
His richest beeswing from a binn re- 
served 
For banquets, praised the waning red, 

and told 
The vintage — when tJiis Aylmer came 

of age- 
Then drank and past it : till at length 

the two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, 

agreed 
That much allowance must be made 

for men. 
After an angry dream this kindlier 

glow 
Faded with morning, but his purnose 

held. 

Yet once by night again the lovers 

met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall 

pines 
That darken'd all the northward of her 

Hall. 



Him, to her meek and modest bosom 

prest 
In agony, she promised that no force, 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter 

her : 
He, passionately hopefuller, would go, 
Labor for his own Edith, and return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 
He should not be rejected. '' Write 

to me ! 
They loved me, and because I loved 

their child 
They hate me ; there is war between 

us, dear, 
Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we 

must remain 
Sacred to one another.'-' So they 

talk'd. 
Poor children, for their comfort : the 

wind blew y 
The rain of heaven, and their own bit- 
ter tears, 
Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, 

mixt 
Upon their faces, as they kiss'd . each 

other 
In darkness, and above them roar'd 

the pine. 

So Leolin went; and as we task our- 
selves 

To learn a language known but smat- 
teringly 

In phrases here and there at random, 
toil'd 

Mastering the lawless science of our 
law. 

That codeless myriad of precedent. 

That wilderness of single instances. 

Thro' which a few, bv wit or fortune 
led. 

May beat a pathway out to wealth and 
fame. 

The jestS; that flash'd about the plead- 
er's room, 

Lightning of the hour, the pun, the 
scurrilous tale, — 

Old scandals buried now seven decades 
deep 

In other scandals that have lived and 
died, 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



36s 



And left the living scandal that shall 

die — 
Were dead to him already; bent as he 

was 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong 

in hopes, 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he, 
Charier of sleep, and wine and exer- 
cise, 
Except when for a breathing-while at 

eve 
Some niggard fraction of an hour he 

ran 
Beside the river-bank: and then in- 
deed 
Harder the times were, and the hands 

of power 
Were bloodier, and the according 

hearts of men 
Seem'd harder too; but the soft river- 
breeze, 
Which fann'd the gardens of that rival 

rose 
Yet fragraiit in a heart remembering 
His former talks with Edith, on him 

breathed 
Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, 
After his books, to flush his blood with i 

air, I 

Then to his books again. IMy lady's ' 

cousin, I 

Half-sicker.ing of his pensioned after- ! 

noon^ I 

Drove in upon the student once or i 

twice, 
Ran a Malayan muck against the 

times, 
flad golden hopes for France and all 

mankind, 
Ansvver'd all queries touching those at 

home 
With a heaved shoulder and a saucy 

smile, 
And fain had haled him out into the 

world, 
And air'd him there : his nearer friend 

would say, 
*■' Screw not the cord too sharply lest 

it snap." 
Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger 

forth 



From where his worldless heart had 

kept it warm, 
Kissing his vows upon it like a knight 
And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of 

him 
Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : 
For heart, I think, help'd head : her 

letters too, 
Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 
Like broken music, written as she 

found 
Or made occasion, being strictly 

watch'd, 
Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till 

he saw 
An end, a hope, a light breaking upon 

him- 

But thev that cast her spirit into 

flesh, ' 
Her worldly-vvise begetters, plagued 

themselves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her 

good. 
V/hatever eldest-born of rank or wealth 
Might lie within their compass, him 

they lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the 

baits [woo. 

Of gold and beauty, wooing him to 
So month by month the noise about 

their doors, 
And distant blaze of those dull ban- 
quets, made 
The nightly wirer of their innocent 

hare 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the folly takmg wings 
Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the 

wind 
V/ith rumor, and became in other 

fields 
A mockery to the y-eomen over ale, 
And laughter to their lords : but those 

at home, 
As hunters round a hunted creature 

draw 
The cordon close and "closer toward 

the death, 



366 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



Narrow'd her goings out and comings 

Fovbade her first the house of Averiil 

Then closed her access to the wealthier 
farms, 

Last from her own home-circle of the 
poor 

They barr'd her : yet she bore it : yet 
her cheek 

Kept color : wondrous ! but, O mys- 
tery ; 

What amulet drew her down to that 
old oak, 

So old, that twenty years before, a part 

Falling had let appear the brand of 
John — 

Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, 
but now 

The broken base of a black tower, a 
cave 

Of touchwood, with a single flourishing- 
spray. 

There the manorial lord too curiously 

Raking in that millennial touchwood- 
dust 

Found for himself a bitter treasure- 
trove; [read 

Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and 

Writhing a letter from his child, for 
which 

Came at the moment Leolin's emissar}', 

A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to 

fly. 

But scared with threats of jail and hal- 
ter gave 

To him. that fluster'd his poor parish 
wits 

The letter which he brought, and swore 
besides [fore 

To play their go-between as hereto- 

Nor let them know themselves betray'd, 
and then. 

Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, 
went 

Hating his own lean heart and miser- 
able. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot 
dream 
Panting he woke, and oft as early as 
dawn 



Aroused the black republic on his 

elms, 
Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue, 

brush'd 
Thro' the dim. meadow toward his 

treasure-trove, 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, 

who made 
A downward crescent of her minion 

mouth, 
Listless in all despondence, read ; and 

tore, 
As if the living passion symbol'd there 
Were living nerves to feel the rent ; 

and burnt, 
Now chafing at his own great self 

defied. 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks 

of scorn 
In babyisms, and dear diminutives 
Scatter'd all over the vocabulary 
Of such a love as like a chidden babe, 
After much wailing, hush'd itself at 

last 
Hopeless of answer ; then tho' Averiil 

wrote 
And bade him with good heart sustain 

himself — 
All would be well — the lover heeded 

not, 
But passionately restless came and 

went. 
And rustling once at night about the 

place, 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly 

hurt. 
Raging return'd ; nor was it well for 

her [pines. 

Kept to the garden now, and grove of 
Watch 'd even there : and one was set 

to watch 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd 

them all, 
Yet bitterer from his readings : once 

indeed, 
Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride 

in her. 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her 

tenderly, 
Not knowing what posse^s'd him : that 

one kiss 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



Z^l 



Was LeoHn's one strong riv^l upon 

earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit, 
Seem'd hope's returning rose : and then 

ensued 
A Martin's summer of his faded love, 
Or ordeal by kindness ; after this 
He seldom 'crost his child without a 

sneer ; 
The mother flow'd in shallower acri- 
monies : 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly 

word : 
So that the gentle creature shut from 

a]] 
Her charitable use, and face to face 
With twenty months of silence, slowly 

lost 
Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on 

life. 
Last, some low fever ranging round to 

spy 
The weakness of a people or a house. 
Like flies that haunt a wound, or deen 

or men, 
Or almost all that is, hurting tlie hurt — 
Save Chiist as we believe him — found 

the girl 
And flung her down upon a couch of 

fire, 
Where careless of the household faces 

near, 
And crying upon the name of Lcolin, 
She, and with her the race of Avlmcr, 

past. 

Star to star vibrates light : may soul 

to soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her own ? 
So, — from afar, — touch as at once ? or 

why 
That night, that moment, when she 

named his name. 
Did the keen shriek, " Yes love, yes 

Edith, yes," 
Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers 

woke, 
And came upon him half-arisen from 

sleep. 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and 

trembling, 



His hair as it were crackling into 

flames, 
His body half flung forw-ard in pur- 
suit. 
And his long arms stretch' d as to grasp 

a flyer : 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made 

the cry: 
And being much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day, 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A ' breaker of the bitter new^s from 

home. 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with 

death 
Beside him, and the dagger which him- 
self 
Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's 
I blood • 

. " From Edith " was engraven on the 
; blade. 

i 

j Then Averill went and gazed upon 

i liis death. 

i And when he came again, his flock 

j believed — 

' Beholding how the years which are not 

j Time's 

I Had Ijlasted liim — that many thousand 

j days 

; \Vcre dipt bv horror from his term of 

: life. 

Yet the sad mother, for the second 
! death 

; Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness 
I of the first, 

I And being used to find her pastor 
I texts, 

i Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying 
j him 

I To speak before the people of her 
I child, 

I And fi.xt the Sabbath. Darkly that 
' day rose : 

I Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded 
woods 

V/as all the life of it; for hard on 
these, 

A breathless burthen of low-folded 
heavens 



368- 



A YLMER'S FIELQ. 



Stifled and chill'd at once: but every 

loof 
Sent out a listener : many too had 

known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and 

since 
The parents' harshness and the hap- 
less loves 
And double death were widely mur- 

mur'd, left 
Their own gray tower, or plain-faced 

tabernacle. 
To hear him ; all in mourning these, 

and those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, 

glove 
Or kerchief ; while the church, — one 

night, except 
For greenish glimmerings thro' the 

lancets, — made 
Still paler the pale head of him, who 

tower'd 
Above them, with his hopes in either 

grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd 

Averill) 
His face magnetic to the hand from 

which 
Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd 

thro' 
His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse 

" Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ! " 
But lapsed into so long a pause again 
As half amazed, half frighted all his 

flock : 
Then from his height, and loneliness of 

grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his 

angry heart 
Against the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became 

one sea. 
Which rolling o'er the palaces of the 

proud. 
And all but those who knew the living 

God- 
Eight that were left to make a purer 

world — 



When since had flood, fire, earthquake, 

thunder, wrought 
Such waste and havoc as the idolatries, 
Which from the low light of mortality 
Shot up their shadov,\s to the Heaven 

of Heavens, 
And worshipt their own darkness as 

the Highest.^ 
" Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy 

brute Baal, 
And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, 
For with thy worst self hast thou 

clothed thy God." 
Then came a Lord in no wise like to 

Baal. 
The babe shall lead the lion. Surely 

now 
The wilderness shall blossom as the 

rose. 
Crown thyself, worm, and worship 

thine own lusts ! — 
No coarse and blockish God of acreage 
Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel 

to— 
Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 
And princely halls, and farms, and 

flowing lawns. 
And heaps of living gold that daily 

grow, 
And title-scrolls and gorgeous heral- 
dries. 
In such a shape dost thou behold thv 

God. 
Thou w^ilt not gash thy flesh for him ; 

for thine 
Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 
Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while 
The deathless ruler of thy dying house 
Is wounded to the death that cannot 

die; 
And tho' thou numberest with the fol- 
lowers 
Of One who cried " Leave all and fol- 
low me. 
Thee therefore with His light about 

thy feet, 
Thee with His message ringhigin thine 

ears, 
Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord 

from Heaven, 
Born of a village girl, carpenter's son, 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



369 



Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty 

God, 
Count the more base idolater of the 

two ; 
Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire 
Bodies, but souls — thy children's — thro' 

the smoke, 
The blight of low desires— darkening 

thine own 
To thine own likeness ; or if one of 

these, 
Thy better born unhappily from thee, 
Should, as by miracle, grow straight 

and fair — 
Friends, I was bid to speak of such a 

one 
By those who most have cause to sor- 
row for her — 
Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well, 
Fairer than Ruth among the fields of 

corn, 
Fair as the Angel that said " hail" she 

seem'd, 
Who entering fill'd the house with sud- 
den light. 
For so mine own was brighten'd: 

where indeed 
The roof so lowly but that beam of 

Heaven 
Dawn'd sometimes thro' the doorway ? 

whose the babe 
Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 
Warm'd at her bosom ? the poor child 

of shame, 
The common care whom no one cared 

for, leapt 
To greet her, wasting his forgotten 

heart, 
As with the mother he had never 

known. 
In gambols; for her fresh and innocent 

eyes 
Had such a star of morning in their 

blue, 
That all neglected places of the field 
Broke into nature's music when they 

saw her. 
Low was her voice, but won m.ysterious 

AAay 
ro' the seal'd ear, to which a louder 

one 

24 



Was all but silence — free of alms her 

hand — 
The hand that robed your cottage- 
walls with flowers 
Has often toil'd to clothe your little 

ones ; 
How often placed upon the sick man's 

brow 
Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow 

smooth ! 
Had you one sorrow and she shared it 

not? 
One burthen and she would not lighten 

it? 
One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? 
Or when some heat of differeiice 

sparkled out, 
How sweetly would she glide between 

your wraths, 
And steal you from each other ! for 

she walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord 

of love, 
Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee ! 
And one — of him I was not bid to 

speak — 
Was always with her, whom you also 

knew. [love. 

Him too you loved, for he was worthy 
And these had been together from the 

first; 
They might have been together till the 

last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when 

sorely tried, 
May wreck itself without the pilot's 

guilt. 
Without the captain's knowledge : 

hope with me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went hence 

with shame ? 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of 

these 
I cry to vacant chairs and widow'd 

walls, 
*•' My house is left unto me desolate." 

While thus he spoke, his hearers 
wept; but some, 
Sons of the glebe, with other frowns 
than those 



370 



A YLMEK'S FIELD. 



That knit themselves for summer 

shadow, scowl 'd 
At their great lord. He, when it seem'd 

he saw 
No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but 

fork'd 
Of the near storm, and aiming at his 

head, like, 

Sat anger-charm'd from sorrow, soldier- 
Erect : but when the preacher's cadence 

flow'd 
Softening thro' all the gentle attributes 
Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd 

his face. 
Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron 

mouth ; 
And, " O pray God that he hold up," 

she thought, 
" Or surely I shall shame myself and 

him," 

" Nor yours the blame — for who be- 
side your hearths 
Can take her place — if echoing me you 

cry 
* Our house is left unto us desolate ? ' 
But thou, O thou that killest, liadst 

thou known, 
O thou that stonest, hadst thou under- 
stood 
The things belonging to thy peace and 

ours ! 
Is there no prophet but the voice that 

calls 
Doom upon kings, or in the waste 

* Repent? ' 
Is not our own child on the narrow way. 
Who down to those that saunter in the 

broad 
Cries, * Come up hither,' as a prophet 

to us ? 
Is there no stoning save with flint and 

rock ? 
Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — 
No desolation but by sword and fire ? 
Yes, as your meanings witness, and 

myself 
Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my 

loss. 
Give me your prayers, for he is past 

your prayers, 



Not past the living fount of pity in 
Heaven. 

But I that thought myself long-suffer- 
ing, meek. 

Exceeding 'poor in spirit' — how the 
words 

Have twisted back upon themselves 
and mean 

Vileness, we are grown so proud — I 
wish'd my voice 

A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 

To blow these sacrifices thro' the 
world — 

Sent like the twelve-divided concubine 

To inflame the tribes ; but there — out 
yonder — earth 

Lightens from her own central Hell — 
O there 

The red fruit of an old idolatry — 

The heads of chiefs and princes fall so 
fast. 

They cling together in the ghastly 
sack — 

The land all shambles — naked mar- 
riages 

Flash from the bridge, and ever-mur- 
der'd France, 

By shores that darken with the gather- 
ing wolf. 

Runs in a river of blood to the sick 
sea. 

Is this a time to madden madness then ? 

Was this a time for these to flaunt their 
pride .-' 

May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense 
as those 

Which hid the Holiest from the peo- 
ple's eyes 

Ere the great death, shroud this great 
sin from all : 

Doubtless our narrow world must can- 
vass it ; 

Or rather pray for those and pity them 

Who thro' their own desire accom- 
plish'd bring 

Their own gray hairs with sorrow to 
the grave — 

Who broke the bond v»'hich they desired 
to break — 

Which else had link'd their race with 
times to come— 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



371 



Who wove coarse webs to snare her 

purity, 
Grossly contriving their dear daughter's 

good — 
Poor souls, and knew not what they did^ 

but sat 
Ignorant, devising their own daughter's 

death ! 
May not that earthly chastisement suf- 
fice ? 
Have not our love and reverence left 

them bare ? 
Will not another take their heritage ? 
Will there be .children's laughter in 

their hall 
Forever and forever, or one stone 
Left on another, or is it a light thing 
That I their guest, their host, their 

ancient friend, 
I made by these the last of all my race 
Must cry to these the last of theirs, as 

cried 
Christ ere His agony to those that 

swore [made 

Not by the temple but the gold, and 
Their own traditions God, and slew the 

Lord, 
And left their memories a world's 

curse — ' Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ? ' " 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd 
no more ; 

Long since her heart had beat remorse- 
lessl)^ 

Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and 
a sense 

Of meanness in her unresisting life. 

Then their eyes vext her ; for on en- 
tering 

He had cast the curtains of their seat 
aside — 

Black velvet of the costliest^ — she her- 
self 

Had seen to that : fain had she closed 
them now, 

Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd 

Her husband inch by inch, but when 
she laid 

Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he 
veil'd 



His face with the other, and at once 

as falls 
A creeper when the prop is broken, fell 
The woman shrieking at his feet, and 

swoon' d. 
Then her own people bore along the 

nave 
Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre 

face 
Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty 

years : 
And her the Lord of all the landscape 

round 
Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, follow'd 

out 
Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
Reel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded 

ways 
Stumbling across the market to his 

death, 
Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and 

seem'd 
Always about to fall, grasping the pews 
And oaken finials till he touch'd the 

door ; 
Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot 

stood. 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect 

again. 

But nevermore did either pass the 
gate 

Save under pall with bearers. In one 
month. 

Thro' weary and yet everw'earier hours, 

The childless mother went to seek her 
child ; 

And when she felt the silence of his 
house 

About him, and the change and not the 
change. 

And those fixt eyes of painted an- 
cestors 

Staring forever from their gilded walls 

On him their last descendant, his own 
head 

Began to droop, to fall ; the man be- 
came 

Imbecile ; his one word was '•' deso- 
late : " 



ZT 



SEA DREAMS. 



Dead for t^YO years before his death 

was he ; 
]]ut when the second Christmas came, 

escaped 
His keepers, and the silence which he • 

felt, 
To find. a deeper in the narrow gloom 
By wife and child ; nor wanted at his 

end 
The dark retinue reverencing death 
At golden thresholds; nor from tender 

hearts, 
And those who sorrow'd o"cr a vanish'd 

race, 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken 

down, 
And the broad woodland parcell'd into 

farms ; 
And where the two contrived their 

daughter's good. 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made 

his run. 
The hedgehog underneath the plantain 

bores. 
The rabbit fondles his own harmless 

face, 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin 

weasel there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open 

field. 



SEA DREAMS. 

A CITY clerk, but gently born and 

bred ; 
His wife, an unknown artist's orphan 

child- 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three 

years old : 
They, thinking that her clear germander 

eye 
Droopt in thegiant-factoried city-gloom. 
Came, with a month's leave given them, 

to the sea : 
For which his gains were dock'd, how- 
ever small^: 
Small were his gains, and hard his 

work ; besides, 
Their slender household fortunes (for 

the man 



Had risk'd his little) like the little thrift, 
Trembled in perilous places o'er a 

deep ; 
And oft, when sitting all alone, his face 
Would darken, as he cursed his credu- 

lousncss. 
And that one unctuous mouth which 

lured him, rogue, 
To buy strange shares in some Peruvian ■ 
i mine. 

Now seaward-bound for health they 
i gain'd a coast, [cave, 

I All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning 
I At close of day ; slept, woke, and went 
} the next, 

; The Sabbath, pious variers from the 
I church, 

I To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer, 
1 Not preaching simple Christ to simple 
I men, 

j Announced the coming doom, and ful- 
1 minaled 

1 Against the scarlet woman and her 
! creed : 

For sideways up he swung his arms, 

and shriek'd, 
" Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if 
he held 
j The Apocalypic millstone, and himself 
Were that great Angel; "thus with 

violence 
Shall Babylon be cast into the sea;" 
Then comes the close." The gentle- 
hearted wife 
Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ; 
He at his own : but when the wordy 

storm 
Had ended, forth they came and paced 

the shore, 
Ran in and out the long sea-framing 

caves. 
Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce 

believed 
(The sootflake of so many a summer 

still 
Clung to their fancies) that they saw, 

the sea. 
So now on sand they walk'd, and now 

on cliff. 
Lingering about the thymy promon- 
tories. 



SEA DREAMS. 



373 



Till all the sails were darken'd in the 

west, 
And rosed in the east: then homeward 

and to bed : 
Where she, who kept a tender Christian 

hope 
Haunting a holy text, and still to that 
Returning, as the bird returns, at night, 
" Let not the sun go down upon your 

wrath." 
-Said, "Love, forgive him:" but he did 

not speak ; 
And silenced by that silence lay the 

wife. 
Remembering her dear Lord who died 

for all, 
And musing on the little lives of men. 
And how they mar this little by their 

feuds. 

But while the two were sleeping, a 

full tide 
Rose with ground-swell, which, on the 

foremost rocks 
Touching, upjetted in spirit of wild sea- 
smoke, 
And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, 

and fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 
Dead claps of thunder from within the 

cliffs 
Heard thro' the living roar. At this 

the babe, 
Their Margaret cradled near them, 

wail'd and woke 
The mother, and the father suddenly 

cried, 
" A wreck, a wreck ! " then turn'd, and 

groaning said, 

" Forgive ! How many will say, * For- 
give,' and find 
A sort of absolution in the- sound 
To hate a little longer ! No ; tlie sin 
That neither God nor man can well 

forgive, 
Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 
Is it so true that second thoughts are 

best? 
Not first, and third, which are a riper 
first .? 



Too ripe, too late I they come too late 

for use. 
Ah love, there surely lives in man and 

beast 
Somethiiig divine to warn them of their 

foes ; 
And such a sense, when I first fronted 

him., 
Said, 'Trust him not;' but after, when 

I came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew him 

less ; 
Fought with what seem'd my own un- 

charity : 
Sate at his table ; drank his costly 

wines ; 
Made more and more allowance for 

his talk ; 
\Vent further, fool ! and trusted him 

with all. 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen 

years 
Of dust and deskwork ; there is no 

such mine. 
None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing 

•gold. 
Not making. Ruin'd ! ruin'd ! the ^ea 

roars 
Ruin a fearful night ! " 

"Not fearful; fair," 
Said the good v.'ife, "if every star in 

heaven 
Can make it fair : you do but hear the 

tide. 
Had you ill dreams ? 

" O yes," he said, " I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the 

land. 
And I from out the boundless outer 

deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd 

one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath 

the cliffs. 
I thought the motion of the boundless 

deep 
Bore through the cave, and I was 

heaved upon it 
In darkness : then I saw one lovely 

star 



374 



SEA DREAMS. 



Larger and larger. ' What a world/ I 

thought, 
* To live in ! ' but in moving on I 

found 
Only the landward exit of the cave, 
Bright with the sun upon the stream 

bej-ond : 
And near the light a giant woman sat. 
All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand : then out I 

slipt 
Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 
As high as heaven, and every bird that 

sings : 
And here the night-light flickering in 

my eyes 
Awoke me." 

"That was then your dream," she 
said, 
"Not sad, but sweet." 

" So sweet, I lay," said he, 
" And mused upon it, drifting up the 

stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and pierced 
The broken vision ; for I dream'd that 

. still 
The motion of the great deep bore me 

on, 
And thai the woman walk'd upon the 

brink : 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd 

her of it : 
' It came,' she said, * by working in the 

mines : ' 
O then to ask her of my shares, I 

thought ; 
And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook 

her head. 
And then the motion of the current 

ceased, 
And there was rolling thunder; and 

we reach'd 
A mountain, hke a wall of burrs and 

thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet up the 

steep hill 
Trod out a path : I follow'd ; and at 

top, 
.She pointed seaward : there a fleet of 

glass, 



That seem'd a fleet of jewels under 
me, 

Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 

That not one moment ceased to thun- 
der, past 

In sunshine; right across its track 
there lay, 

Down in the water, a long reef of 
gold. 

Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad 
at first 

To think that in our often-ransacked 
world 

Still so mucli gold was left; and then 
I fear'd 

Lest the gay navy there should splin- 
ter on it. 

And fearing waved my arm to warn 
them off ; 

An idle signal, for the brittle fleet 

(I thought 1 could have died to save 
it) near'd, 

Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and van- 
ish'd, and I woke, 

I heard the clash so clearly. Now I 
see 

My dream was Life ; the woman hon- 
est Work ; 

And my poor venture but a fleet of 
glass, 

Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold." 

'' Nav," said the kindly wife to com- 
fort him, 

'• Vou raised your arm, you tumbled 
down and broke 

The glass with little Margaret's medi- 
cine in it.; 

And, breaking that, you made and 
broke your dream : 

A trifle makes a dream, a trifle 
breaks." 

"No trifle," groan'd the husband; 

" yesterday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and 

ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my 

dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. * Shov 

me the books ! ' 



SEA DREAMS. 



375 



He dodged me with a long and loose The prisoner at the bar, ever cor 



account. 



deinned : 



The books, the books ! ' but he, he . And that drags down his life : th 



could not wait. 
I'ound on a matter of life and death : 
\Vhen the great Books (see Daniel 

seven and ten) 
Were opeir d, I should find he meant 

me well : [ooze 

And then began to bloat himself, and 
All over v;ith the fat affectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. ' My 

dearest friend, 
Have faith, have faith ! We live by 

faith,' said he ; 
* And all things work together for the 

good 
Of those ' — it makes me sick to quote 

him — last 
Gript my hand hard, and with God- 

bless-you went. 
I stood like one that had received a 

blow : 
I found a hard friend in his loose ac- 
counts, 
A loose one in the hard grip of his 

hand, 
A curse in his God-bless-you : then my 

eyes 
Pursued him down the street, and far 

away 
Among the honest shoulders of the 

crowd. 
Read rascal in the motions of his 

back, 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding 

knee." 

" Was he so bound, poor soul ? '' 
said the good wife ; 

" So are we all : but do not call him, 
love, 

Before you prove him, rogue, and 
proved, forgive. 

His gain is loss; for he that wrongs 
his friend 

WrongG himself more, and ever bears 
about 

A silent court of justice in his breast, 

Himself the judge and jury, and him- 
self 



comes what comes 
Hereafter : and he meant, he said he 

meant. 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, 

you well." 

"•With all his conscience and one 

eye askew ' — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that 

you may learn 
A man is likewise counsel for himself, 
Too often in that silent court of 

yours — 
* With all his conscience and one eye 

askew. 
So false, he partly took himself for 

true ; 
Whose pious talk, when most his heart 

was dry, 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round 

his eye; 
Who, never naming God except for 

gain. 
So never took that useful name in 

vain; 
Made Him his catspaw and the Cross 

his tool, 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe 

and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he 

forged, 
And snakelike slimed his victim ere he 

gorged ; 
And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the 

rest 
Arising, did his holy oily best, 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell and 

Heaven, 
To spread the Word by which himself 

had thriven.' 
How like you this old satire ? " 

" Nay," she said, 
" I loathe it ; he had never kindly 

hear I, 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind, 
Who firsl wrote satire with no pity in 



376 



SEA DREAMS. 



But will you hear 7;/j dream, for r had With that svvcet note; and ever as 

one their shrieks 

That altogether went to music ? Still Ran highest up the gamut, that great 



It awed me." 

T'lcn ohc told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. 

— " But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, 

la\', 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Sweli'd up and died ; and, as it swell'd, 

a ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and 

still 
Grew with the growing note, and when 

the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fulness, on 

those cliffs 
Broke, mixt with awful light (the same 

as that 
Living within the belt) whereby she 

saw 
That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs 

no more, 
But huge cathedral fronts of every age, 
Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could 

see, 
One after one : and then the great 

ridge drew, 
Lessening to the lessening music, back. 
And past into the belt and swell'd 

again 
Slowly to music : ever when it broke 
The statues, king or saint, or founder, 

fell; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of 

ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clusters 

round, 
Some crying ' Set them up ! they shall 

not fall ! ' 
And others, ' Let them lie, for they 

have fall'n.' 
And still they strove and wrangled : 

and she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not 

why, to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of 

tune 



wave 
Returning, while none mark'd it, on 

the crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and 

show'd their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and 

swept away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men 

of stone, 
To the waste deeps together. 

" Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images, 
Both crown'd with stars and high 

among the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her 

child 
High up on one of those dark minster- 
fronts — 
Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a 

cry 
Which mixt with little Margaret's, and 

I woke, 
And my dream awed me : — well — but 

what are dreams .-* 
Yours came from the breaking of a 

glass. 
And mine but from the crying of a 

child." 

"Child.? No! "said he, "but this 

tide's roar, and his, 
Our Boanerges, with his threats of 

doom, 
And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho' I grant but little music there) 
Went both to make your dream : but 

if there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries. 
Sphere-music such as that you dream'd 

about, 
Why, that would make our passions 

far too like 
The discords dear to the musician. 

No- 
One shriek of hate would jar all the 

hymns of heaven : 



SEA DREAMS. 



Z11 



True Devils with no ear. they howl in 

tune • 
With nothing but the Devil ! " 

1 
" * True ' indeed ' 
One of our town, but later by an hour | 
Here than ourselves, spoke with me 

on the shore ; 
While you were running down the 

sands, and made 
The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow 

flap, 
(rood man, to please the child. She 

brought strange news. 
Why were you silent when I spoke 

to-night ? 
I had set my heart on your forgiving 

him 
Ikforc you knew. We must forgive 

the dead." 

" Dead ! who is dead } " 

" The man your eye pursued. 
A little after you had parted with him, 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart- 
disease." 

" Dead? he ? of heart-disease ?what 
heart had he 
To die of .? dead ! " 

" Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too, 
And if he did that wrong you charge 

him with, 
His angel broke his heart. But your 

rough voice 
(You spoke so loud) has roused the 

child again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not 

sleep 
Without her * little birdie ? ' well then, 

sleep, 
And I will sing you * birdie.' " 

Saying this. 
The woman half turn'd round from him 

she loved, 



Left him one hand, and reaching thro' 
the night 

Her other, found (for it was close 
beside) 

And half embraced the basket cradie- 
head 

With one soft arm, which^ like the 
pliant bough 

That moving moves the nest and nest- 
ling, sway'd 

The cradle, while she sang this baby 
song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day } 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
. Mother, let m'e fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say. 
In her bed at peep of day ? 
Baby says, like little birdie, 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer, 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 

'She sleeps: let us too, let all evil, 

sleep. 
He also sleeps— another sleep than 

ours. 
He can do no more wrong : forgive 

him, dear, 
And I shall sleep the sounder 1 " 

Then the man, 
" His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to 

come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night 

be sound : 
I do forgive him ! " 

" Thanks, my love," she said, 
" Your own will be the sweeter," and 
they slept. 



378 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne ? 
Ruddy and .vhite, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. 
And Willy's wife has written : she never was over-wise. 
Never the wife for Willy : he wouldn't take my advice. 



For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save, 
Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for one. 
Eh !— but he wouldn't hear me— and Willy, you say, is gone. 

III. 
Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock ; 
Never a man could fling him : for Willy stood like a rock. 
" Here's a leg for a baby of a week ! " says doctor: and he would be bound 
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. 



Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue ! 
I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay ; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. 

V. 

Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard and cold ; 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

VI. 

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear, 
I mean your grandfather', Annie : it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

VII. 

For Jenny, niy cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well 
That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would not tell. 
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar 1 
But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. 

VIII. 

And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, 
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 379 



IX. 

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day ; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had een ! 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make one's self clean. 



And I cried myself wellnigh blind, and all of an evening late 

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. 

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, 

And whit, whit, wliit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 

XI. 

All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the farm, 
Willy, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how ; 
Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. 



Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant ; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went. 
And I said, " Let us part : in a hundred years it'll all be the same, 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." 



And he turn'd, and I saw his e^'es all wet, in the sweet moonshine 
" Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill ; 
But marry me out of hand : we too shall be happy still." 



" Marry you, WiHy ! " said I, " but I needs must speak my mind. 
And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind." 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, " No, love, no ;" 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

XV. 

So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; 
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born. 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 

XVI. 

That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 

There lay the svv-eet little body that never had drawn a breath. 

I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife ; 

But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. 



iSo THE GRANDMOTHER. 



XVI r. 



His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain: 

I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been in vain. 

For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : 

But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. 



But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay ; 
Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have his way: 
Never jealous — not he : we had many a happy year : 
And he died, and I could not weep — my own time scem'd so near. 



But I wi^h'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died 
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget : 
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet. 

XX. 

Pattering over the boards, my Annie, who left me at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you : 
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, ■ 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. 



And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 



And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : 
And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten : 
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men. 



For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve : 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve : 
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I ; 
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. 



To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : 
But mine is a time of peace', and there is Grace to be had ; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease 
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. 



I\'OR THERN FA RMER, 3 8 1 



a; 



And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, 
And happy has been my life ; but I v.ould not live it . 
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest : 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 



So Willie has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower ; 
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour,- 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; 
I too, shall ffo in a minute. What time have I to be vext .-' 



And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. 
Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep my eyes. 
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have passed awa3\ 
But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long to stay. 



N(\RTHERN FARMER. 

OLD STYLE. 



Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan ? 
Noorse .'' thoort nowt o' a noorse ; whoy, doctor's abean an' agoan 
Says that I moant 'a naw moor yaale : but I beant a fool : 
Git ma my yaale, for I beant a-gooin' to break my rule. 

II. 

Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what's nawways true : 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
I've 'ed my point o' yaale ivry noight sin' I bean *ere, 
An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-noiglit for foorty year. 

in. 
Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin 'ere o' my bed. 
*' The amoighty 's a taiikin o' you to 'issen, my friend," 'a said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, an 's toithe were due, an' I gied it i.-i hond 
I done my duty by un, as I 'a done by the lond. 

iV. 
Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. 
But a cost oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Harris's barn. 
Thof a knaws I hallus voated wi' ' quoire an' choorch an staate, 
An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate.' 



382 NORTHERN FARMER. 



V. 

An' I hallus corned to 's choorch afoor my Sally wur dead, 
An' 'eerd un a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock* ewer my yead, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad summut to saay, 
An' I thowt a said whot a out to 'a said an' I corned awaay. 

VI. 

Bessy Harris's barn ! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep un, I kep un, my lass, tha mun understond ; 
I done my duty by un as I 'a done by the lond. 

VII. 

But Parson a comes an' a goos, an' a says it easy an' freea 

" The amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend," says 'ea. 

I weant saay men be loiars, thof summun said it in 'aaste : 

But a reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thornaby waaste. 

VIII. 

D' ya moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw, tha was not born then ; 

Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eerd un mysen : 

Moast loike a butter-bump, t for I 'eerd un abc^t an aboot, 

But I stubb'd un cop wi' the lot, and raaved an' rembled un oot. 



Reaper's it wur ; fo' they fun un theer a laaid on 'is faace 
Doon i' the woild 'enemies % afoor I comed to the plaace. 
Noaks or Thimbleby — toner 'ed shot an as dead as a naail. 
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my yaale. 



Dubbut looak at the Avaaste : theer war n't not fead for a cow ; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' looak at it now — 
War n't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer 's lots o' fead, 
Fourscore yows upon it an' some on it doon in seiid. 

XI. 

Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall, 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all, 
If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, 
Mea, wi' haate oonderd haacre o' Squoire's an' load o' my oan. 



Do godamoighty knaw what a 's doing a-taiikin' o' mea ? 

I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea; 

An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear ! 

And I 'a monaged for Squoire come Michaelmas thirty year. 

* Cockchafer, f Bittern. % Anemones. 



TITHONUS. 



383 



XIII. 



A mowt 'a taaken Joanes, as 'ant a 'aapoth o' sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taaken Robins — a niver mended a fence : 
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma now 
Wi' auf the cows to cauve an' Thornaby holms to plow ! 



Looak 'ow quoloty smoiles when they sees ma a passin' by, 

Says to thessen naw doot "what a mon a be sewer-ly ! " 

For they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a corned to the 'All: 

I done my duty by Squoire an' I done my duty by all. 

XV. 

Squoire 's in Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite, 
For who 's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit; 
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, 
Noither a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the stoans. 

XVI. 

But summun "ull come ater mea mayhap wn' 'is kittle o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's oan team 
Gin I mun doy I mun doy, an' loife they says is sweet, 
But gin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. 

XVII. 

What atta stannin' theer for, an' doesn bring ma the yaale ? 
Doctor 's a 'tottler, lass, and a 's hallus i' the owd taale ; 
I weant break rules for Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy ; 
Git ma my yaale I tell tha, an' gin I mun doy I mun doy. 



TITHONUS. 

The woods decay, the woods decay 

and fall, 
The vapors weep their burthen to the 

ground, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies 

beneath, 
And after many a summer dies the 

swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine 

arms, 
Here at the quiet limit o£ the world, 
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a 

dream 



The ever silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of 



Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a 

man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy 

choice, 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he 

seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a 

God! 
I ask'd thee " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with 

a smile, 



3^4 



TITHONUS, 



Like wealth)' men who care not how 

they give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd 

their wills, 
And beat me down and marred and 

wasted me, 
And tho' they could not end me, left 

me maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal 

youth, 
Immortal age beside immortal youth, 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy 

love, 
Thy beauty make amends, tho' even 

now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy 

guide. 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that 

fill with tears 
To hear me } Let me go : take back 

thy gift : 
Why should a man desire in any 

way 
To vary from the kindly race of men. 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most 

meet for all ? 



A soft air fans the cloud apart : there 

comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I 

was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer 

steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy 

shoulders pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart re- 

new'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the 

gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close 

to mine, 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the 

wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, 

arise, 
And shake the darkness from their 
^. loosen'd manes, 
And beat the tw'iight into flakes of 

fire. 



Lo ! ever thus thou growest beau- 
tiful 

In silence, then before thine answer 
given 

Departest, and thy tears arc on my 
cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with 

thy tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying 

learnt 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be 

true ? 
"The Gods themselves cannot recall 

their gifts." 

Ay me ! ay me ! with what another 

heart 
In days far-off, and with what other 

eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that 

watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee ; 

saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and 

felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crim- 

son'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I 

lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing 

dewy-warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening 

buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that 

kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild 

and sweet. 
Like that strange, song I heard Apollo 

sing, 
While Ilion like a mist rose into 

towers. 

Yet hold me not forever in thine 

East : 
How can my nature longer mix with 

thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, 

cold . ' 

Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled 

feet 



THE VOYAGE. 



385 



Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when 

the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about 

the homes 
Of happy mqn that have the power to 

die, 
And grassy barrows of the happier 

dead. ' 
Release me, and restore me to the 

ground : 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my 

grave ; 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by 

morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty 

courts, 
nd thee returning on thy silver 

wheels. 



THE VOYAGE. 



We left behind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbor-mouth : 
And madly danced our hearts with joy, 

As fast we fleeted to the South : 
ilow fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore ! 
We knew the merry world was round, 

And we might sail forevermore. 



Warm broke the breeze against the 
brow. 
Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd 
the gale. 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the 
keel, 
And swept behind: so quick the 
run. 
We felt the good ship shake and reel, 
We seem'd to sail into the Sun ! 



How oft we saw the Slin retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night, 

Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire, . 
And sleep beneath his pillar'd light ! 



How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn, 

As thro' the slumber of the globe 
Again vve dash'd into the dawn ! 



New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Changed every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean s heaving field. 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's duskv shield; 



The peaky islet shifted shapes. 

High towns on hills were dimly 
seen, 
We past long lines of Northern capes 

And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer waves, and deep 

Across the boundless east we drove, 
Where those long swells of breaker 
sweep 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 



By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and quiver- 
ing brine 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and streaming flats, and 
floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we i^ast. 

VII 

O hundred shores of happy climes, 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark ! 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 

\yith wakes of fire we tore the dark; 
At times the carven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowers, 
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, 

But we nor paused for fruits nor 
flowers. 



386 



THE P LOWER. 



Yox one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and 
njffht, 
And still we follow'd where she led 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen, 

And fixt upon the far sea-line ; 
But each man murmured," O my Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine." 



And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air, 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge 
fair, 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd 
the sea. 
And now, the bloodless point reversed, 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 

X. 

And only one among us — him 

We ])1 eased not — he was seldom 
pleased: 
He saw not far : liis eyes were dim : 

But ours he sw^ore was all diseased. 
*' A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite, 

"A ship of fools," he sneer'd and 
wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 

XI. 
And never sail of ours was furl'd 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
We loved the glories of the world, 

But laws of nature were our scorn ; 
For blasts would rise and rave and 
cease, 
But whence were those that drove 
the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace. 
And to and thru' the counter-gale ? 

XIT. 

Again to colder climes we came, 
For still we follow'd W'here she led : 



Now mate is blind and captain lame. 
And half the crew are sick or dead. 

But blind or lame or sick or sound 
We follow'd that which flies before 

We know the merry world is roimd, 
And we may sail forevermore. 



IN THE VALLEY OF CAU- 
TERETZ. 

All along the valley, stream that 
flashest white. 

Deepening thy voice with the deepen- 
ing of the night. 

All along the valley, where thy waters 
flow, 

I walk'd with one I loved two and 
thirty years ago. 

All along the valley while J walk'd to- 
day. 

The two and thirty years were a mist 
that rolls av^'ay ; 

For all along the valley, down thy 
rocky bed, 

Thy living voice to me was as the voice 
of the dead. 

And all along the valley, by rock and 
cave and tree. 

The voice of the dead w^as as a living 
voice to me. 



THE FLOWER. 

Once in a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 

Up there came a flov.^er, 
The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower, 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light, 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 



THE ISLET. 



387 



Sow'd it far and wide 
By every town and tower, 

Till all the people cried, 
" Splendid is the flower." 

Read my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can rai.se the flowers now, 
P or all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



REQUIESCAT. 

Fair is her cottage in its place, 

Where yon broad water sweetly, 
slowly glides. 

It sees itself from thatch to base 
Dream in the sliding tides. 

And fairer she, but ah, how soon to 
die ! 
Her quiet dream of life this hour 
may cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 
To some more perfect peace. 



THE SAILOR-BOY. 

He rose at dawn ;ind, fired with hope. 
Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, 

And reach' d the ship and caught the 
rope, 
And whistled to the morning star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 

" O Boy, tho' thou art young and 
proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 

" The sands and yeasty surges mix 
In caves about the dreary bay, 

And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 
And in 'thy heart the scrawl shall 
play." 



" Fool," he answer'd, " death is sure 
To those that stay and those that 
roam. 
But I will nevermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 

"My mother clings about my neck. 
My sisters crying, ' Stay, for shame ; ' 

My father raves of death and wreck. 
They are all to blame, they are all to 
blame. 

" God help me ! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 

A devil rises in my heart. 

Far worse than anv death to me." 



THE ISLET. 
" Whither, O whither, love, shall we 

For a score of sweet little summers or 

so .> " 
The sweet little wife cf the singer said 
On the day that follow'd the day she 

was wed : 
"Whither, O whither, love, shall we 



go 



?" 



And the singer shaking his curly head 
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 
There at his right with a sudden crash. 
Singing, " And shall it be over the 

seas 
With a crew that is neither rude nor 

rash, 
But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd. 
In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd. 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow. 
To a sweet little Eden on earth that I 

know, 
A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ; 
Waves on a diamond shingle dash. 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine. 
And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd 
With many a rivulet high against the 

Sun 
The facets of the glorious motintain 

flash 



388 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 



Above the valleys of palm and pine." 
" Thither, O thither, love, let us go." 

" No, no, no ! 

For in ail that exquisite isle, my dear,. 

There is but one bird with a musical 

throat, 
And his compass is but of a single 

note. 
That it makes one weary to hear." 
" Mock me not ! mock me not I love, 

let us go." 

" No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on 

the tree. 
And a storm never wakes on the lonely 

sea, 
And a worm is there in the lonely 

wood, 
That pierces the liver and blackens the 

blo^d. 
And makes it a sorrow to be." 



THE RINGLET. 

" Your ringlets, your ringlets, 

That look so golden-gay. 
If you will give me one, but one. 

To kiss it night and day, 
Then never chilling touch of Time 

Will turn it silver-gray ; 
And then shall I know it is all true 

gold 
To flame and sparkle and stream as of 

old, 
Till all the comets in heaven are cold. 

And all her stars decay." . 
** Then take it, love, and' put it by ; 
This cannot change, nor yet can I." 



" My ringlet, my ringlet. 

That art so golden-gay, 
Now never chilling touch of Time 

Can turn thee silver-gray ; 
And a lad may wink, and a girl may 
hint, ' 
And a fool may say his say; 
For my doubts and fears were all 
amiss. 



And I swear henceforth by this and 

tliis. 
That a doubt will only come for a kiss, 

And a fear to be kiss'd away." 
"Then kiss it, love, and put it'by : 
If this can change, why so can I." 

II. 

Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I kiss'd you night and day, 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You still are golden-gav. 
But Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You should be silver-gray : 
For what is this which now I'm told, 

1 that took you for true gold, 

She that gave you's bought and sold. 
Sold, sold. 



O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She blush'd a rosy red, 
YVhen Ringlet, O R'inglet, 

She dipt you from her head, 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She gave you me, and said, 
" Come, kiss it, love, and put it by ; 
If this can change, why so can I." 
O fie, you golden nothing, fie, 
You golden lie. 



O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I count vou much to blame. 

For Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You put me much to shame. 

So Ringlet, O Ringlet, 
I doom you to the fiame. 

For what is this which now I learn, 

Has given all my faith a turn ? 

Burn, you glossy heretic, burn. 
Burn, burn. 



A v;elcome to Alexandra. 

March 7, 1863. 

Sea-kings' daughter from over the sea, 
Alexandra ! 
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 
But all of us Danes in our welcome of 
thee, 



ODE. 



389 



Alexandra ! 
Welcome her, thunders of fort and of 

fleet! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the 

street ! 
Welcome her, all things youthful and 

sweet, 
Scatter the blossom under her feet ! 
l^reak, happy land, into earlier flowers ! 
Make music, O bird, in the new-bud- 
ded bowers : 
lilazon your mottoes of blessing and 

prayer ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is 

ours ! 
Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and 

towers ! 
Fj'am.es, on the windy headland flare ! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March 

air ! 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and 

higher 
Melt into the stars for the land/s desire ! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 
Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the 

strand, 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the 

land, 
And welcome her, welcome the land's 

desire, 
The sea-kings' daughter as happy as 

fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the 

sea — 
O joy to the people, and joy to the 

throne, 
Come to us, love us, and make us your 

own : 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 
We are eacli all Dane in our welcome 

of thee, 

Alexandra ! 



ODE SUNG AT TflE OPENING 
OF THE INTERNATIONAL 
EXHIBITION. 

Uplift a thousand voices full and 
sweet, 
In this wide hall with earth's inven- 
tion stored, 
And praise th' invisible universal 
Lord, 
AVho lets once more in peace the 
nations meet. 
Where Science, Art, and Labor have 
outpour'd 
Their myriad horns of plenty at our 
feet. 

O silent father of our Kings to be 
Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee. 
For this, for all, we weep our thanks to 
thee ! 

The world-compelling plan was thine. 

And lo ! the long laborious miles 

Of Palace ; lo ! the giant aisles. 

Rich in model and design ; 

Harvest-tool and husbandry. 

Loom and wheel and engin'ry. 

Secrets of the sullen mine, 

Steel and gold, and corn and v.ine, 

Fabric rough, or Fairy fine. 

Sunny tokens of the Line, 

Polar marvels, and a feast 

Of wonder out of West and East, 

And shapes and hues of Art divine ! 

All of beauty, all of use, 

That one fair planet can produce. 

Brought from under every star, 
Blov.'n from over every main, 
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, 

The works of peace with works of 
V. ar. 

O ye, the wise who think, the wise who 
reign. 

From growing commerce loose her 
latest chain. 

And let the fair white-winged peace- 
maker fly 

To happy heavens under all the sky. 

And mix the seasons and the golden 
hours, 



39' 



THE CAPTAhW 



Till each man finds his own in all 
men's good, 

And all men work in noble brother- 
hood, 

Breaking their mailed fleets and armed 
towers, 

And ruling by obeying Nature's 
powers, 

And gathering all the fruits of peace 
and crown'd with all her flowers. 



A DEDICATION. 

Dear, near and true — no truer Time 

himself 
Can prove you, tho' he make you ever- 
more 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall— take this, and pray 

that he. 
Who wrote it, lionoring your sweet 

faith in him, 
May trust himself ; and spite of praise 

and scorn. 
As one who feels the immeasurable 

world, 
Attain the wise indifference of the 

wise ; 
And after Autumn past — if left to pass 
His ajatumn into seeming-leafless 

days — 
Draw toward the long frost and longest 

night, 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the 

fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks a 
flower. * 



THE CAPTAIN. 

A LEGEND OF THE NAVY. 

He that only rules by terror 
Doeth grievous wrong. 

Deep as Hell I count his error 
Lei him hear my song. 

* The fruit of the Spindle-trec {Eiioftymus 
Europcens), 



Brave the Captain was : the seamen 

Made a gallant crew. 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression, 

Stern he was and rash ; 
So for every light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoever he came. 
So they past by capes and islands, 

Many a harbor-mouth. 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they v,-ere going 

O'er the lone expanse, 
In the North, her canvas flowing, 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's color heighten'd, 

Joyful came his speech : 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
" Chase," he said : the ship flew for- 
ward. 
And the wind did blow ; 
Stately, lightly, went she Norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated, 
j Had what they desired : 
i Mute with folded arms they waited — 
j Not a gun was fired, 
i But they heard the foeman's thunder 
} Roaring out their doom ; 
i All the air was torn in sunder, 
I Crashing went the boom, 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were shat- 
ter'd, 
Bullets fell like rain ; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd : decks were 
broken : 
Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt — no word was 
spoken — 



THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 



391 



Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they \Yere lying, 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay dying, 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name, 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart con- 
founded, 

Pale he turn'd and red. 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error! fearful slaughter! 

Years have wander'd by. 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie ; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering. 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



THREE SONNETS TO A CO- 
QUETTE. 

Caress'd or chidden by the dainty 
hand. 
And singing airy trifles this or that, 
Light Hope at Beauty's call would 
perch and stand, 
And run thro' every change of sharp 

and flat : 
And Fancy came and at her pillow 
sat : [band, 

When Sleep had bound her in his rosy 
And chased away the still-recurring 
gnat, 
And woke her with a lay from fairy 
land. [less, 

But now they live with Beauty less and 
For Hope is other Hope and wan- 
ders far. 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious 
creeds ; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness. 
Poor Fancy sadder than a single 

star, 
That sets at twilight in a land of 
reeds. 



The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 
A nobler yearning never broke her 

rest 
Than but to dance and smg, be gayly 
drest, [ment : 

And win all eyes with all accomplish- 
Yet in the waltzing-circle as we went, 
My fancy made me for a moment 

blest 
To find my heart so near the beaute- 
ous breast 
That once had power to rob it of con- 
tent. 
A moment came the tenderness of tears, 
The phantom of a wish that once 
could move, 
A ghost of passion that no smiles 
restore — 
For ah ! the slight coquette, she can- 
not love, 
And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand 
years, 
She still would take the praise, 
and care no more. 

3- 
Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take 
the cast 
Of those dead lineaments that 'near 
thee lie? 

sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the 

past. 
In painting some dead friend from 

memory ? 
Weep on : beyond his object Love can 

la^t: 
His object lives: more cause to weep 

have I : 
My tears, no tears of love, are flowing 

fast. 
No tears of love, but tears that Love 

can die. 

1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup. 
Nor care to oit beside her where she 

sits — 
Ah pity — hint it not in human 
tones. 
But breathe it into earth and close it up 
With secret death forever, in the pits 
Which some green Christmas 
crams with weary bones. 



392 



SONG. 



ON A MOURNER. 
Nature, so far as in her lies, 

Imitates God, and turns her face 
To every land beneath the skies, 
Counts nothing that she meets with 

base, 
l>ut lives and loves in every place ; 



Fills out the homely quick-set screens, 
And makes the purple lilac ripe, 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 
The swamp, where hums the drop- 
ping snipe, 
With moss and braided marish-pipe; 



And on thy heart a finger lays, 

Saying, " Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime 
Put forth and feel a gladder clime." 



And murmurs of a deeper voice. 
Going before to some far shrine. 

Teach that sick heart the stronger 
choice. 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide will that closes thine. 



And when the zoning eve has died 

Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn. 
Come Hope and Memory, spouse and 
bride. 
From out the borders of the morn. 
With that fair child betwixt them 
born. 



And when no mortal motion jars 
The blackness round the tombing 
sod, 



Thro' silence and the trembling stars 
Comes Faith from tracts no feet 

have trod. 
And Virtue, like a household god. 



Promising empire ; such as those 
That once at dead of night did greet 

Troy's wandering prince, so that he 
rose 
With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Plad rest by stony hills of Crete. 



SONG, 



Lady, let the rolling drums 
Beat to battle where thy warrior stands : 
Now thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands. 

Lady, let the trumpets blow, 
Clasp thy little babes about thy knee : 
Now their warrior father meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and 
thee. 



SONG 



Home they brought him slain with 
spears. 
They brought him home at even-fall : 
All alone she sits and hears 
Echoes in his empty hall. 

Sounding on the morrow. 

The Sun peep'd in from open field, 
The boy began to leap and prance. 
Rode upon his father's lance, 

Beat upon his father's shield — 

" O hush, my joy, my sorrow." 



EXPEKIMEXTS. 393 



EXPERIMENTS. 

BOADICEA. 

While about the shore of Mona those Neroniau iCgionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, 
Far in the East Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility, 
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodune, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. 

" They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barl^arous populaces. 
Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating ? 
vShall I heed them in their anguish ? shall I brook to be supplicated ? 
Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon annihilate us ? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering ? 
Bark an answer, Britain's raven ! bark and blacken innumerable, 
Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcass a skeleton, 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, 
Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be propitiated. 
Lo their colony half-defended ! lo their colony, Camulodune I 
There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. 
There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot. 
Such is Rome, and this her deity ; hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaun ! 

" Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O Coritanian ! 
Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant. 
These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances, 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially, 
Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred. 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
J'loodily fiow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men 
Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary ; 
Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 
There was one who watch'd and told me — down their statue of Victory fell. 
To their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camuloddne, 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to be pitiful ? 
Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall we dandle it amorously ? 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
While I roved about the forest, loug and bitterly meditating, 
There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, 
I-oosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses. 
' Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets ! 
Tho'the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee, 
Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet ! 
Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated, " 



394 EXPERIMENTS. 



Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable, 

Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, 

Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of God.' 

So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguries happier ? 

So they chanted in the darkness, and Uiere cometh a victory now. 

" Hear Iccnian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
j\Ic the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty, 
Me they seized and me tliey'tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Mc the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! 
Sec they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy ! 
AVhcrcforc in mc burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. 
Lo the palaces and the temple, io the colony Camulodune ! 
There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory, 
Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness — 
Bloodilv, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. 
Shout icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, 
Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd. 
Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Cunobeline '^. 
There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay, 
Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. 
There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there — there — they dwell no more. 
Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuar}', 
Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable, 
Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness. 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Chop the breasts from off the mother, clash the brains of the little one out, 
Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us." 

So the Queen Boddicea, standing loftily charioted. 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like. 
Yelled and shrieked between her daughters in her fierce volubility, 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated. 
Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments, . 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January, 
Roar'd as when the rolling breakers boom and blanch on the precipices, - 
Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. 
So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries 
Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand, 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice, 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously. 
Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy famted away. 
Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 
Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. 
Perish' d many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary. 
Fell the colony, city and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodune. 



EXPERIMENTS. 395 



IN QUANTITY. 

MILTON. 

Alcaics. 

O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies, 
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for ages ; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories. 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel onset — 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness, 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean. 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, 
And crimson-hued the staj;ely palmwoods 
AVhisper in odorous hcigii'ts of even. 



Ilendecasyllahics, 

O YOU chorus of indolent reviewers, 

Irresponsible, indolent reviewers. 

Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 

All composed in a metre of Catullus, 

All in quantity, careful of my motion. 

Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him. 

Lest I fall unawares before the people, 

Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. 

Should I flounder awhile without a tumble 

Thro' this metrification of Catullus, 

They should speak to me not without a welcome, 

All that chorus of indolent reviewers. 

Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, 

So fantastical is the dainty metre. 

WHierefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me 

Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. 

O blatant Magazines, regard me rather — 

Since I blush to belaud myself a moment — 

As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost 

Horticultural art, or half coquette-like 

Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. 



39^ 



EXPERIMENTS. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD IN 
BLANK VERSE. 

So Hector said, and sea-like roar'd his host; 
Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke 
And each beside his chariot bound his own ; 
And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep 
In haste they drove, and honey-hearted -tvine 
And bread from out the houses brought, and heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain 
Roll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven. 
And these all night upon the * bridge of war 
Sat glorying ; many a fire before them blazed : 
As when in heaven the stars about the moon 
Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid. 
And every height comes out, and jutting peak 
And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
Break open to their highest, and all the stars 
Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart: 
So many a fire between the ships and stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain ; and close by each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; 
And champing golden grain, the horses stopd 
Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn.t 

Iliad VIII. 547.-S61. 



*Or, ridge. 

t Or more literally 



And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds 
Stood by their cars, waiting the throned morn. 






THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



397 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 

AND OTHER POEMS. . 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, 
Had one fair daugiiter, and none other 

child ; 
And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, 
Guinevere, and in her his one delight. 



For many a petty king ere Arthur 
came 
Ruled in this isle, and ever vi'aging war 
Each upon other, wasted all the land; 
And still from time to time the heathen 

host 
Swarm'd overseas, and harried what 

was left. 
And so there grew great tracts of wil- 
, — ^ derness, 
^^Vherein the beast was ever more and 

more, 
. But man was less and less, till Arthur 
^ came. 

I* For first Aurelius lived and fought and 
\ died, 

"i And after him King Uther fought and 
\ died, 

\ But either fail'd to make the kingdom 
% one. 

J And after these King Artjuir for a space, 
r And thro' the puissance of his Table 
\ Round, ■ ' ' ' ^ *"^ 

-^ Drew all their petty princedoms under 
him, 
Their king and head, and made a realm, 
and reign'd. 

And thus the land of Cameliard was 
waste. 
Thick with wet woods, and many a 
beast therein, 



And none or few to scare or chase the 

beast ; 
So that wild dog, a)id wolf and boar and 

bear 
Came night and dav, and rooted in the 

fields. 
And wallow'd in the gardens of the king. 
And ever and anon the wolf would steal 
The children and devour, but now and 

then, 
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her 

fierce teat 
To human sucklings; and the children, 

housed 
In her foul den, there at their meat 

would growl. 
And mock their foster-mother on four 

feet, 
Till, straighten'd, they grew up to wolf- 
like men. 
Worse than the wolves. And King 

Leodogran 
Groan'd for the Roman legions here 

again, [king. 

And Caesar's eagle: then his brother 
Rience, assail'd him ; last a heathen 

horde, 
Reddening the sun with smoke and earth 

with blood. 
And on the spike that split the mother's 

heart 
Spitting the child, brake on him, till, 

amazed. 
He knew not whither he should turn 

for aid. 

But — for he heard of Arthur newly 
crown'd, 
Tho' not v^'ithout an uproar made, by 
those 



398 



THE COMING OF ARTirUR, 



Who cried, "He is not Uther's son" — 

the king 
Sent to him, saying, "Arise, and lielp 

us thou ! 
For here between the man and beast we 

die." 

~, And Arthur yet had done no deed of 

I arms, 

^' But heard the call, and came: and 

Guinevere 
' Stood by the castle walls to watch him 
pass ; 
But since he neither wore on helm or 

shield 
The golden symbol of his kinglihood, 
But rode a simple knight among his 

knights. 
And many of these in richer arms than 

he, 
She saw him not, or mark'd not, if she 
saw, 
v"' One among many, tho' his face was bare. 
>^But Arthur, looking downward as he 

'^ . past, 
^ Felt the light of her eyes into his life 
Smite on 'rhe sudden, yet rode on, and 

pitch'd 
His tents beside the forest. And he 

drave 
The heathen, and he slew the beast, and 

fell'd 
The forest, and let in the sun, and made 
Broad pathways for the hunter and the 

knight ; 
And so return'd. 



For while he linger'd there, 
s A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the 
, hearts 

" Of those great Lords and Barons of his 
realm 
Flash'd forth and into war : for most-of 

these 
Made head against him, crying, " Who 

is he 
That he should rule usi" who hath 

proven him 
King Uther's son ? for lo! v/e look at 

him. 
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs 
nor voice, 



I Are like to those of Uther whom we 

knew. 
! This is the son of Gorlois, not the king ; 
This is the son of Anton, not the king." 

And Arthur, passing thence to battle, 

felt 
Travail, and t^^roes and agonies of the 

^life,'""K. ',^^^'^-^- 
Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere ; 
And thinking as he rode, " Her father 

said -.z:^ 

That there between the man and beast 

they die. 
Shall 1 not lift her from this land of 

beasts 
Up to my throne, and side by side with 

me ^ 
What happiness to reign a lonely king, 
Vext— O ye stars that shudder over me, / 

earth that soundest hollow under me, 
Vext with waste dreams ? for saving I 

be join'd 
To her that is fairest under heaven, 

1 seem as nothing in the mighty world, 
And cannot will my will, nor work my 

work [realm 

Wholly, nor make myself in mine own 
Victor and lord. But were I join'd 

with her. 
Then might we live together as one life, 
And reigning Vvith one v/ill in every- 
thing 
Have power on this dark land to lighten 

it, 
And power on this dead v.-o;ld to make 
it live." 

And Arthur from the field of battle 

sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivcre, 
tlis new-made knights, to King Leodo- 

gran. 
Saying, " If I in aught have served thee 

well, 
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to 

wife." 

Whom when he heard, Leodogran in 
heart \ 

Debating — "How should I that am a , 
king, 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



399 



However much he holp me at my need, 
Give my one daughter saving to a king, 
And a king's son" — lifted his voice, and 

call'd 
A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom 
He trusted all things, and of him re- 
quired 
His counsel ; " Knowest thou aught of 
Arthur's birth ? " 

Then spake the hoary chamberlain 
and said, 
" Sir king, there be but two old men 

that know : 

And each is twice as old as I ; and one 

Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served 

King Uther thro' his magic art: and 

one 

„ Is Merlin's master (so they call him) 

Bleys, 
^ Who taught him magic; but the scholar 
V ran 

Before the master, and so far, that 

Bleys 
Laid magic by, and sat him down, and 

wrote 
All things and whatsoever Merlin did 
In one great annal-book, where after- 
years 
,-v Will learn the secret of our Arthur's 
i birth." 

V. 

To whom the King Leodogran re- 
plied, 

" O friend, had.I been holpen half as 
well 

By this King Arthur as by thee to-day. 

Then beast and man had had their 
share of me ; 

But summon here before us yet once 
more 

Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere." 

Then, when they came before him, 

the king said, 
'* I have seen the cuckoo chased by 

lesser fowl, 
And reason in the chase : but wherefore 

now 
Do these your lords stir up the heat of 

war, 
Some calling Arthur born of Gorloi's, 



Others of Anton ? Tell me, ye your- 
selves, 

Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther's 
son ? " 

And Ulfius and Brastias answer'd, 

"Ay. 
Then Bedivere, the first of all his knights 
Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, 

spake — 
For bold in heart and act and word was 

he. 
Whenever slander breathed against the 

king— 

" Sir, there be many rumors on this 

head ; 
For there be those who hate him in 

their hearts, 
Call him baseborn, and since his ways 

are sweet, 
And theirs are bestial, hold him less 

than man, 
And there be some who deem him moi-e 

than man. 
And dream he dropt from heaven : but 

m.y belief 
In all this matter — so ye care to learn — 
Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's 

time 
The prince and warrior Gorloi's, he that 

held 
Tintagel castle by the Cornish sea, 
Was wedded with a winsome wife, 

Ygerne : 
And daughters had she borne him, — 

one whereof 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Belli- 

cent. 
Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved 
To Arthur, — but a son she had not 

borne. 
And Uther cast upon her eyes of love : 
But she, a stainless wife to Gorlois, 
So loathed the bright dishonor of his 

love, 
That Gorlois and King Uther went to 

war : 
And overthrown was Gorlois and slaiu. 
Then Uther in his wrath and heat be- 
sieged 
Ygerne v/ithin Tintagel, where her men, 



400 



THE COMING OF AR TIIUR 



Seeing the mighty swarm about thyr 

walls, 
Left her and fled, and Uther enter'd in, 
And there was none to call to but him- 
self. 
So, compass'd by the power of the king, 
Enforced she was to wed him in her 

tears, 
And with a shameful swiftness : after- 
ward, 
Not many moons, King Uther died him- 
self 
Moaning and wailing for an heir to rule 
After him, lest the realm should go to 

wrack. 
And that same night, the night of the 

new year, 
By reason of the bitterness and grief 
That vext his mother, all before his 

time 
Was Arthur born, and all as soon as 

born 
Deliver'd at a secret postern-gate 
To Merlin, to be holden far apart 
Until his hour should come ; because 

the lords 
Of that fierce day were as the lords of 

this. 
Wild beasts, and surely would have 

torn the child 
Piecemeal among them,had they known; 

for each 
But sought to rule for his own self and 

hand. 
And many hated Uther for the sake 
Of Gorlois. Wherefore Merlin took 

the child, 
And gave him to Sir Anton, an old 

knight 
And ancient friend of Uther; and his 

wjfe 
Nursed the young prince, and rear'd 

him with her own ; 
And no man knew. And ever since 

the lords 
Have foughten like wild beasts among 

themselves, 
So that the realm has gone to wrack: 

but now. 
This year, when Merlin (for his hour 

had come) 



Brought Arthur forth, and set him in 

the hall. 
Proclaiming, ' Here is Uther's heir, 

your king,' 
A hundred voices cried, 'Away with 

him ! 
No king of ours ! a son of Gorlois he. 
Or else the child of Anton, and no 

king. 
Or else baseborn.' Yet Merlin thro' 

his craft, 
And while the people clamor'd for a 

king, 
Had Arthur crown'd ; but after, the 

great lords 
Banded, and so brake out in open 

war." 

Then while the king debated with 

himself 
If Arthur were the child of shameful- 

ness. 
Or born the son of Gorlois, after 

death, 
Or Uther's son, and born before his 

time. 
Or whether there were truth in any- 
thing 
Said by these three, there came to 

Camel iard. 
With Gaw'ain and young Modred, her 

two sons, 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bel- 

licent ; 
Whom as he could, not as he would, 

the king 
Made feast for, saying, as they sat at 

meat, 

"A doubtful throne is ice on sum- 
mer seas — 

Ye come from Arthur's court : think 
3'e this king — 

So few his knights, however brave they 
Ijc — 

Hath body enow t^ beat his foemcn 
down } " 

" O king," she cried, "and I will tell 
thee : fqw, 
Few, but all brave, all of one mind 
with him : 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



401 



For I was near him when the savage 

yells 
Of Other's peerage died, and Arthur 

sat 
Crown'd on the dais, and his warriors 

cried, 
* Be thou the king, and we will work 
thy will 
X Who love thee.' Then the king in 
^ low, deep tones, 

^ And simple words of great authority, 
s Bound them by so strait vows to his 
> own self, 

That when they rose, knighted from 

kneeling, some 
Were pale as at the passing of a ghost, 
Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one 

who wakes , 

Half-blinded at the coming of a light. 



" But when he spake and cheer'd his 

Table Round 
With large divine and comfortable 

words 
Beyond my tongue to tell thee — I be- 
held 
From eye to eye thro' all their Order 

flash 
A momentary likeness of the king : 
And ere it left their faces, thro' the 

..cross 
And those around it and the Crucified, 
Down from the casement, over Arthur, 

smote 
Flame-color, vert and azure, in three' 

rays, 
One falling upon each of three fair 

queens, 
Who stood in silence near his throne, 

the friends 
Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with 

bright 
Sweet faces, who will help him at his 

need. 



''And there I saw mage Merlin; 
whose vast wit 
And hundred winters are but as the 

hands 
Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 
26 



" And near him stood the Lady of 

the Lake, 
Who knows a subtler magic than his 

own — 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
She gave the king his huge cross- 

hilted sword, 
Whereby to drive the heathen out : a 

mist [face 

Of incense curl'd about her, and her 
Wellnigh was hidden in the minster 

gloom ; 
But there was heard among the holy 

hymns [dwells 

A voice as of the waters, for she 
Down in a deep, calm, whatsoever 

storms 
May shake the world, and when the 

surface rolls. 
Hath power to walk the waters like 

our Lord. 

"There likewise I beheld Excalibur 
Before him at his crowning borne, the 

sword 
That rose from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
And Arthur row'd across and took it — 

rich 
With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt, 
Bewildering heart and eye — the blade 

so bright 
That men are blinded by it — on one 

side, 
Graven in the oldest tongue of all this 

world, 
*Take me,' but turn the blade and you 

shall see, 
And written in the speech ye speak 

yourself, 
' Cast me away ! ' and sad was Arthur's 

face 

ing i 

him, 
* Take thou and strike ! the time to 

cast away 
Is yet far-off.' So this great brand the 

king 
Took, and by this will beat his foemen 

down." 



402 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but 

thought 
To sift h'^.s doubtings to the Last, and 

ask'd, 
Fixing full eyes of question on her 

face, 
" The swallow and the swift are near 

akin, 
But thou art closer to this noble prince. 
Being his own dear sister ; " and she 

said, 
" Daughter of Gorlois and Ygerne am 

I;" 
''And therefore Arthur's sister," asked 

the King. 
She answer'd, "These be secret things," 

and sign'd 
To those two sons to pass and let them 

be. 
And Gawain went and breaking into 

song 
Sprang out, and follow'd by his flying 

hair, [saw : 

Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he 
But Modred laid his ear beside the 

doors. 
And there half heard ; the same that 

afterward 
Struck for the throne, and striking 

found his doom. 

And then the Queen made answer, 

" What know I .? 
For dark my mother was in eyes and 

hair. 
And dark in hair and eyes am I ; and 

dark 
Was Gorlois, yea and dark was Uther 

too. 
Well nigh to blackness j but this king 

is fair 
Beyond the race of Britons and of 

men. 
Moreover always in my mind I hear 
A cry from out the dawning of my life, 
A mother weeping, and I hear lier 

say, 
' O that ye had some brother, pretty 

one, 
To guard thee on the rough ways of 

the world.'" 



"Ay," said the King, "and hear ye 
such a cry } 
But when did Arthur chance upon thee 
first ? " 

"Oh king!" she cried, "and I will 

tell thee true : 
He found me first when yet a little 

maid : 
Beaten I had been for a little fault T~^ 

Whereof I was not guilty; and out I ^ 

ran ^ 

And flung myself down on a bank of -^ 

heath, 
And hated this fair world and all 

therein. 
And wept, and wish'd that I were dead ; 

and he — 
I know not \vhether of himself he 

came, 
Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, 

can walk 
Unseen at pleasure — he was at my 

side. 
And spake sweet words, and comforted 

my heart. 
And dried my tears, being a child with 

me. 
And many a tivne he came, and ever- 
more 
As I grew greater grew with me ; and 

sad 
At times he seem'd, and sad with him 

was I, 
Stern too at times, and then I loved 

him not, 
But sweet again, and then I loved him 

well. 
And now of late I see him less and 

less. 
But those first days had golden hours 

for me. 
For then I surely thought he would be 

king. 

"But let me tell thee now another 

tale: 
For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they 

sav, 
Died but of late, and sent his cry to 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



40: 



To hear him speak before he left his 

life. 
Shrunk like a fairy changeh'ng lay the 

mage, 
And when I enter'd told me that him- 
self 
And Merlin ever served about the 

king, [night 

Uther, before he died, and on the 
When Uther in Tintagel past away 
Moaning and wailing for an heir, the 

two 
Left the still king, and passing forth 

to breathe, 
Then from the castle gateway by the 

chasm 
Descending thro' the dismal night — a 

night 
In which the bounds of heaven and 

earth were lost — 
Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps 
It seem'd in heav'n, a ship, the shape 

thereof 
A dragon w^ing'd, and all from stem to 

stern 
Bright with a shining people on the 

decks. 
And gone as soon as seen j and then 

the two 
Dropt to the cove, and watch'd the 

great sea fall. 
Wave after wave, each mightier than 

the last, 
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half 

the deep 
And full of voices, slowly rose and 

plunged 
Roaring, and all the waves was in a 

flame : 
And down the wave and in the flame 

was borne 
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's 

feet, 
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and 

cried, ' The King ! 
Here is an heir for Uther!' and the 

fringe 
Of that great breaker, sweeping up the 

strand, 
Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the 

word. 



And all at once all round him rose in 

fire. 
So that the child and he were clothed 

in fire. 
And presently thereafter follow'd calm. 
Free sky and stars : 'And this same 

child,' he said, 
' Is he who reigns ; nor could I part in 

peace 
Till this were told.* And saying this 

the seer 
Went thro' the strait and dreadful pass 

of death. 
Not ever to be question'd any more 
Save on the further side ; but when I 

met 
Merlin, and ask'd him if these things 

were truth — 
The shining dragon and the naked 
I child 

! Descending in the glory of the seas — 
j He laugh'd as is his wont, and answer'd 
I me 

I In riddling triplets of old time, and 
I said : 

j " 'Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow in 
I the sky ! 

i A young man will be wiser by and by ; 
I An old" man's wn't may wander ere he 

die. 
I Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow on 
j the lea ! 

! And truth is this to me, and that to 
j thee ; 

; And truth or clothed or naked let 

it be. 
Rain, sun, and rain ! and the free 

blossom blows : 
Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he 

who knows .^ 
From the great deep to the great deep 

he goes.' 

• '* So Merlin riddling anger'd me; 

but thou 
Fear not to give this king thine only 

child, 
Guinevere : so great bards of him will 

sing 
Hereafter ; and dark savmgs from of 

old 



404 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



Ranging and ringing thro' the minds 

of men, 
And echo'd by old folk beside their 

fires 
For comfort after their wage-work is 

done, 
Speak of the king ; and Merlin in our 

time 
Hath spoken also, not in jest, and 

sworn 
Tho' men may wound him that he will 

not die, 
But pass, again to come ; and then or 

now 
Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, 
Till these and all liien hail him for 

their king.' 

She spake and King Leodogran re- 
joiced, 
But musing " Shall I answer yea or 

nay ? " 
Doubted and drowsed, nodded and 

slept, and saw. 
Dreaming, a slope of land that ever 

grew, 
Field after field, up to a height, the 

peak [king, 

Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom 
Now looming, and now lost; and on 

the slope "^ | 

The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd ' 

was driven. 
Fire glimpsed ; and all the land from 

roof and rick, 
In drifts of smoke before a rolling 

v,'ind, 
Stream'd to the peak, and mingled 

with the haze 
And made it thicker; while the j^han- 

tom king 
Sent out at times a voice ; and here or 

there 
Stood one who pointed toward the 

voice, the rest 
Slew on and burnt, crying, " No king 

of ours, 
No son of Uther, and no king of 

ours ; " 
Till with a wink- his dream was 

changed, the haze 



Descended, and the solid earth became 
As nothing, and the king stood out in 

heaven, 
Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and 

sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 
Back to the court of Arthur answering 

yea. 

Then Arthur charged his warrior 

whom he loved 
And honor'd most, Sir Lancelot, to 

ride forth 
And bring the Queen ; — and watch'd 

him from the gates : 
And Lancelot past away among the 

flowers, 
(For then was latter April) and re- 

turn'd 
Among the flowers, in INIay, with Gui- 
nevere. 
To whom arrived, by Dubric the high 

saint, 
Chief of the church in Britain, and 

before 
The stateliest of her , altar-shrines, the 

king 
That morn was rnarried, while in stain- 
less white, 
The fair beginners of a nobler time. 
And glorying in their vows and him, 

his knights 
Stood round him, and rejoicing in his 

joy. 
And holy Dubric spread his hands and 

spake, 
" Reign ye, and live and love, and 

make the world 
Other, and m.ay thy Queen be one with 

thee, 
And all this Order of thy Table Round 
Fulfil the boundless purpose of their 

king." 

Then at the marriage feast came in 

from Rome, 
The slowly-fading mistress of the 

world. 
Great lords, who claim'd the tribute 

as of yore. 
But Arthur spake, " Behold, for these 

have sworn 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



405 



To fjght my wars, and worship me 

their king ; 
The old order changeth, yielding place 

to new ; 
And we that fight for our fair father 

Christ, 
Seeing that ye be grown too weak and 

old 
To drive the heathen from your Roman 

wall. 
No tribute will we pay:" so those 

great lords 
Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove 

with Rome 

And Arthur and his knighthood for 

a space 'i 

Were all one will, and thro' that 

strength the king 
Drew in the petty princedoms under^ 

him, 
Fought, and in twelve great battles 

overcame 
The heathen hordes, and made a realm 

and reign'd. 



To answer that which came : and as 
they sat 

Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darken- 
ing half j^4-c-/-'-, 

The cloisters, on a" gustful April morn 

That puff'd the swaying branches into 
smoke 

Above them, ere the sum.mer when he 
died. 

The monk Ambrosius question'd Per- 
civale: 

v^^'^^jDr other, I have seen this yew- 

i^l'ee smoke, 
Spr^g after spring, for half a hundred 

V years : 
\^ never have I known the world 

- without, 
Nor ever stray'd beyond the pale : but 

thee, 
When first thou camest — such a cour- 

' tesy 
Spake thro' the limbs and in the voice 
I " — I knew 

For one of those who eat in A-rthur's 
I hall ; 

! For good ye are and bad, and like to 
\ coins, 

Some true, some light, but everv one 

From noiseful arms, and acts oK'- 5^^^° ,J°^j^j^ tj^^ image of the King; 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



prowess done 
In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, 
Whom Arthur and his knighthood 

call'd The Pure, 
Had pass'd into the silent life of 

prayer. 
Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for 

the cowl .v-.a^, 4c^, 
The helmet in an abbey far away 
From Cam.elot, there,' and not long 

after, died. 

And one, a fellow-monk among the 
rest, 

Ambrosius, loved him much beyond 
the rest. 

And honor'd him, and wrought into his 
heart 

A way by love that wr:!:cn':1 love with- 
in. 



and now 
Tell jne, what drove thee from the 

Table Round, 
My broth e .' v/as it earthly passion 

crost ? 



"Nay,'' said the knight; "for no 
such passion mine. 

But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail 

Drove me from all vainglories, rival- 
ries, 

And earthly heats that spring and 
sparkle out 

Among us in the jousts, while women 
watch 

Who wins, who falls; and waste the 
spiritual strength 

Within us, better offer'd up to 
Heaven." 



4o6 



THE IJOLY GRAIL. 



To whom the monk: "The Holy 

Grail !— I trust 
Wc are green in Heaven's eyes; but 

here too much 
We moulder — as to things without I 

mean — 
Yet one of your own knights, .a guest 

of ours, \ ...K-,*-. ' • 

Told us of this in our refectory, '-i 
But spake v.ith such a sadness and so 

low 
We heard not half of what he said. 

What is it? 
The phantom of a cup that comes and 

goes?" 

"Nay, monk! what phantom ?" an- 

sw'er'd Percivale, 
" The cup, the cup itself, from which 

our Lord 
Drank at the last sad supper with his 

own. 
This, from the blessed land of 

Aromat — 
After the day of darkness, when the 

• dead 
Went wandering o'er Moriah — the 

good saint, 
Arimathaean Joseph, journeying 

brought 
To Glastonbury, where the winter 

thorn 
Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our 

Lord. 
And there awhile it bode; and if a 

man 
Could touch or see it, he was heal'd 

at once, 
By faith, of all his ills. But then the 

times 
Grew to such evil that the holy cup 
Was caught away to Heaven, and dis- 

appear'd." 

To whom the monk: "From our 
old books I know 

That Joseph came of old to Glaston- 
bury, 

And there the heathen Prince, Arvi- 
ragus, 

Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to 
build ; 



And there he built with wattles from 
the marsh 

A little lonely church in days of yore. 

For so they say, these books of ours, 
but seem 

Mute of this miracle, far as I have 
read. 

•But who first saw the holv thing to- 
day ? " 

" A woman," answer'd Percivale, a 

nun, 
And one no further off in blood from 

me 
Than sister ; and if ever holy maid 
With knees of adoration wore the 

stone, 
A holy maid ; tho' never maiden 

glow'd, 
But that was in her earlier maidenhood, 
With such a fervent flame of human 

love, 
Which being rudely blunted, glanced 

and shot 
Only to holy things : to prayer and 

praise 
She gave herself, to fast and alms. 

And yet. 
Nun as she was, the scandal of the 

Court, 
Sin against Arthur and the Table 

Round, 
And the strange sound of an adulter' 

ous race, 
Across the iron grating of her cell 
Beat, and she pray'd and fasted all th^ 

more. 

"And he to whom she told her sins, 

or what 
Her all but utter whiteness held for 

sin, 
A man wellnigh a hundred winters old, 
Spake often with her of the Holy 

Grail, 
A legend handed down thro' five or 

six, 
And each of these a hundred winters 

old. 
From our Lord's time. And when 

King Arthur made 



THE HOLY CRAIL. 



407 



^is Table Round, and all men's hearts 

became 
Clean for a season, surely he had 

thought 
That now the Holy Grail would come 

again ; 
But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it 

would come, 
And heal the world of all their wicked- 
ness! 
' O Father ! ' asked the maiden, 'might 

it come 
To me by prayer and fasting ? ' ' Nay,' 
' said he, 
' I know not, for thy heart is pure as 

snow.' 
And so she pray'd and fasted, till the 

sun 
Shone, and the wind blew, thro' her, 

and I thought 
She might have risen and fxoated when 

I saw her. 

" For on a day she sent to speak 
with me. 

And when she came to speak, behold 
lier eyes 

Beyond my knowing of them, beautiful, 

Beyond all knowing of them, wonder- 
ful. 

Beautiful in the light of holiness. 

And ' O my brother, Percivale.' she 
said, [Grail : 

* Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy 
, wakec' 
sound 

As of a -silver horn from o'er the hills 

Blown, and I thought, " It is not 
Arthur's use 

To hunt by moonlight;" and the slen- 
der sound 

As from a distance beyond distance 
grew 

Coming upon me — O never harp nor 
horn. 

Nor aught we blow with breath, or 
touch with hand. 

Was like that music as it came ; and 
then 

Stream'd thro' my cell a cold and sil- 
ver beam, 



And dov/n the long beam stole the 

Holy Grail, 
Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive, 
Till all the white walls of my cell were 

dyed 
V/ith rosy colors leaping on the wall; 
And then the music faded, and the 

Grail 
Pass'd, and the beam decay 'd, and 

from the walls 
The rosy quiverings died into the night. 
So now the Holv Thing is here again 
Among us, brother, fast thou too and 

pray. 
And tell thy brother knights to fast 

and pray. [seen 

That so perchance the vision may be 
By thee and those, and all the world 

be heal'd.' 

*• Then leaving the pale nun, I spake 

of this 
To all men ; and myself fasted and 

pray'd 
Always, and many among us many a 

week [most, 

Fas+ed and pray'd even to the utter- 
Expectant of the v^'onder that would 

be. 

" And one there was among us, ever 

moved 
Among us in white armor, Galahad. 
' God make thee good as thou art 

beautiful,' 
Said Arthur, when he dubb'd him 

knight ; and none. 
In so young youth, was ever made a 

knight 
Till Gafahad ; and this Galahad, when 

he heard 
My sister's vision, fill'd me with 

amaze ; 
His eyes became so like her own, they 

seem'd 
Hers, and himself her brother more 

than I. 

" Sister or brother none had he ; but 
some 
Call'd him a son of Lancelot, and some 
said 



4o8 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



Begotten by enchantment — chatterers 

they, 
Like birds of passage piping up and 

down, 
That gape for flies — we know not 

whence they come ; 
For when was Lancelot wanderingly 

lewd 

" I>ut she, tlie wan sweet maiden 

shore away 
Clean from her forehead all that wealth 

of hair 
V.' hich made a silken mat-work for her 

feet ; 
And out of this she plaited broad and 

long 
A strong sword-belt, and wove with 

silver thread 
And crimson in the belt a strange 

device, 
A crimson grail within a silver beam ; 
And saw the bright boy-knight, and 

bound it on him, 
Saying, ' My knight, my love, my knight 

of heaven, 
O thou, my love, whose love is one with 

mine, 
I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind 

my belt. 
Go forth, for thou shalt see what I 

have seen, 
And break thro' all, till one will crown 

thee king 
Kar in the spiritual city :' and as she 

spake 
kShe sent the deathless passion in her 

eyes 
Thro' him, and made liim hers, and laid 

her mind 
On him, and he believed in her be- 
lief. 

''Then came a year of miracle : O 

brother, 
Tn our great hall there stood a vacant 

chair, 
Fashion'd by Merlin ere he past away, 
And carven with strange figures ; and 

in and out 
The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll 



Of letters in a tongue no man could 

read. 
And Merlin call'd it 'The Siege 

perilous,' 
Perilous for good and ill ; 'for there,' 

he said, 
' No man could sit but he should lose 

himself : ' 
And once by misadvertence Merlin sat 
In his own chair, and so was lost ; but 

he, 
Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's 

doom, 
Cried, ' If I lose myself I save myself ! ' 

"Then on a summer night it came to 
pass, 

While the great l)anquet lay along the 
hall, 

That Galaliad would sit down in Mer- 
lin's chair. 

" And all at once, as there we sat, 

we heard 
A cracking and a riving of the roofs, 
And rending, and a blast, and over- 
head 
Thmider, and in the thunder was a cry. 
And in the blast there smote along the 

hall 
A beam of light seven times more clear 

than day : 
And down the long beam stole the 

Holy Grail 
All over cover'd with a luminous cloud, 
And none might see who bare it, audit 

past. 
But every knight beheld his fellow's 

face 
As in a glory, and all the knights arose, 
And staring each at other like dumb 

men 
Stood, till I found a voice and sware a 

vow. 

"I sware a vow before them all, 
that I. 
Because I had not seen the Grail, would 

ride 
A twelveti.onth and a day in quest of it, 
Until I found and saw'it, as the nun 



THE HOLY GRATL. 



409 



My sister saw it ; and Galahad sware 

the vow, 
And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's 

cousin, sware. 



" O brother, had you known our 
mighty hall, 
Which Merlin built for Arthur long 
aG;o! 



And Lancelot sware^ and many among For all the sacred mount of Camelot, 



the knights, 



! And all the dim rich citv, roof bv roof, 



And Gawain sware, and louder than the ; Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, 

By grove, and garden-lawn, and rushing 

brook, 
Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin 
built. 



rest." 

Then spake the monk Ambrosius, 
askincj him, 



What said the king? Did Arthur take ! And four great zones of sculpture, set 



the vow ? " 

" Nay, my lord," said Percivale, 

" the King 
Was not in hall : for early that same 

day, ' I 

'Scaped thro' a cavern from a bandit 

hold. 
An outraged maiden sprang into the 

hall 
Crying on help: for all her shining hair 
W^as smear'd with earth, and either 

milky arm 
Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and 

all she wore 
Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is 

torn 
In tempest : so the King arose and went 
To smoke the scandalous hive of those 

wild bees 
That made such honey in his realm. 

Howbeit 
Some little of this marvel he too saw, | Behold it, cr3-.ing, ' V\^e have still a 
Returning o'er the plain that then ; kiiig-' 

began ! 

To darken under Camelot : whence the i " And, brother, had you known our 

King j hall within, 

Look'd up, calling aloud, ' Lo there ! I Broader and higher than any in all the 

the roofs ! lands ! 

Of our great Hall are rolled in thunder- j Where twelve great wmdov.'S blazon 

smoke ! j Arthur's wars. 

Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by ' And all the light that falls upon the 

the bolt.' I L^oard 

For dear to Arthur was that hall of j Streams thro' the tv/elve great battles 

ours, i of our King. 

As having there so oft with all his | Nay, one there is, and at the eastern 

knights I end. 

Feasted, and as the stateli.2st under , Wealthy with wandering lines of mount 

heaven. i and m.ere, 



betwixt 
With many a mystic svmbol, gird the 
-«. hall: 
And in the lowest beasts are slaying 

men, 
And in the second men are slaying 

beasts, 
And on the third are warriors, perfect 
! men, 

/And on the fourth are men with grow- 
i — ing wings. 

And over all one statue in the mould 
Of Arthur; made by Merlin, with a 

crown, 
And peak'd wings pointed to the Nor- 
thern Star. 
And eastward fronts the statue, and 

the crown 
And both the wings are made of gold, 

and flame 
At sunrise till the people in far fields, 
Wasted so often by the heathen hordes. 



410 



THE HOL V GRAIL. 



Where Arthur finds the brand, Excali- 

bur, 
And also one to the west, and counter 

to ir, 
And blank : and who shall blazon it ? 

when and how ? — 
O there, perchance, when all our wars 

are done, 
The brand Excalibur will be cast away. 

" So to this hall full quickly rode the 

King, 
In horror lest the work by Merlin 

wrought, 
Dreamlike, should on the sudden van- 
ish, wrapt 
In unremorseful folds of rolling fire. 
And in he rode, and up I glanced, and 

saw 
The golden dragon sparkling over all: 
And many of those who burnt the hold, 

their arms 
Hack'd, and their foreheads grimed 

with smoke, and sear'd, 
Foilow'd, and in among bright faces, 

ours, 
Full of the vision, prest : and then the 

King 
Spake to me, being nearest, ' Percivale, 
(Because the hall was all in tumult — 

some 
Vowing, and some protesting), 'what is 

this ? ' 

"O brother, when I told him what 

had chanced, 
My sister's vision, and the rest, his face 
Darken'd, as I have seen it more than 

once. 
When some brave deed seem'd to be 

done in vam, 
Darken ; and * Woe is me, my 

knights ! ' he cried, 
' Had I been here, ye had not sworn the 

VOV,'.' 

Bold was mnie answer, ' Had thyself 

been here, 
My King, thou wonldst have sworn.' 

' Yea, yea,' said he, 
' Art thou so bold and hast not seen the 

Grail ? ' 



*' ' Nay, Lord, I heard the sound, 
saw'the light, 
But since I did not see the Holy Thing 
I sware a vow to follow it till I saw.' 

" Then when he asked us, 'knight b 

knight, if any 
Had seen it, all their answers were a 

one: 
' Nay, Lord, and , therefore have w 

STA'orn our vows.' . 

" * Lo now,' said Arthur, have y 

seen a cloud .-' 

What go ye into the wilderness to see ? 

" Then Galahad on the sudden, an( 

in a voice 
Shrilling along the hall to Arthui 

call'd, 
'But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail 
I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry- 
O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me 

" ' Ah, Galahad, Galahad,' said th' 

King, ' for such 
As thou art is the vision, not for these 
Thy holy nun and thou have seen ; 

sign- 
Holier is none, my Percivale, thai 

she — 
A sign to maim this Order which 

made. 
But vou, that follow but the leader' 

bell,' 
(Brother, the king was hard upon hi 

knights,) 

'Taliessin is our fullest throat of song 
And one hath sung and all the duml 

will sing. 
Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath over 

borne 
Five knights at once, and every younge 

knight, 
Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, 
Till overborne by one, he learns — anc 

What are ye? Galahads .? — no, no 

Percivales ' 
(For thus it pleased the King to rang< 

my close 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



411 



icr Sir Galahad); 'nay,' said he, 

* but men 
ith strength and \vi!l to right the 

wrong'd, of poNver - 

. lay the sudden head Oi violence flat, 
ligl-tls that in twelve g-c2t battles 

splash'd and dyed 
le strong White Horse in his own 

heathen blood — 
.t one hath seen, and all the blind 

will see. 
), since your vows are sacred being 

made : 
;t_for ye know the cries of all my 

realm, 
.ss thro' this hall— huw often, O my 

knights, 
-ur places being vacant at my side, 
lis chance of noble deeds will come 

and go 
nchallenged, while you follow wan- 
dering tires 
?5t in the quagmire? many of you, 

yea most, 
eturn no more : ye think I show my- 
self 
00 dark a prophet : come how, let us 

meet 

'he morrow morn once more in one 

full field [l-^i"g' 

)f gracious pastime, that once more the 

Jefore you leave him for- this Quest, 

may count 
:he yet-unbroken strength of all his 

knights, 
Rejoicing in that Order which he 
made.' 



" So when the sv.n broke next from 

underground, 
All vhe P7eat table of our Arthur closed 
And clash'd in such a tourney and so 

full, 
So many lances broken— never yet 
Had Camelot seen the like, since 

Arthur came ; 
And I myself and Galahad, for a 

£;;reng'th 
Was in us from the vision, overthrew 
So many knights that all the people 

cried, 



And almost burst the barriers in their 

heat, 
Shouting, ' Sir Galahad and Sir Perci- 

vale : ' 

"But when the next day brake from 
underground— 
O brother, had you know^n our Came- 
lot, 
Built by old kings, age after age, so old 
'I he king himself had fears tha it would 

fall. 
So strange, and rich, and" dim; for 

where the roofs 
Totter'd toward each other in the sky. 
Met foreheads all along the street of 

those 
W^ho watch'd us pass ; and lower, and 

where the long 
Rich galleries, lady-laden, weigh'd the 

necks 
Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, 
Thicker than drops from thunder, 

showers of flowers 
Fell as we past ; and men and boys 

artride 
On wyvern, lion, dragon, griffin, swan, 
At all the corners, named us each by 

name. 
Calling ' God speed ! ' but in the street 

below 
The knights and ladies wept, and rich 

and poor 
W^ept, and the King himself could 

hardly speak 
For grief, and in the middle street the 

Queen, 
Who rode by Lancelot, wail'd and 

shriek'd aloud, 
' This madness has come on us for our 

sins.' . 

And then we reach'd the weirdly 

sculptured gate. 
Where Arthur's wars were render d 

mystically. 
And thence departed every one his 
way. 



" And I was lifted up in heart, and 
thoug.ht 
Of all my late-shov.n prowess in the 
lists. 



412 



THE HOL V GRAIL. 



How my strong lance liacl beaten down 

the knigh's, 
So many and famous names; and 

never yet 
Had heaven appear'd so blue, nor 

earth so green, 
For all my blood danced in me, and I 

knew 
That I should light upon the Holy 

Grail. 

"Thereafter, the dark warning of 
oiir King, 

That most of us would follow wander- 
ing fires. 

Came like a drivi-ng gloom across my 
mind. [once, 

Then every evil word I had spoken 

And every evil thought I had thought 
of old, '' 

And every evil deed I ever did, 

Awoke and cried, ' This Quest is not 
for thee.' 

And lifting up mine eyes, I found my- 
self 

Alone, and in a land of sand and 
thorns, 

And I was thirsty even unto death ; 

And I, too, cried, ' This Quest is not 
for thee.' 

*' And on I rode, and when I thought 

my thirst 
Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and 

then a brook, 
With one sharp rapid, where the crisp- 
ing white 
Play'd ever back upon the sloping wave, 
And took both ear and eye ; and o'er 

the brook 
Were apple-trees, and apples by the 

brook 
'Fallen, and on the lawns, ' I will rest 

here,' 
I said, ' I am not worthy of the Quest;' 
But even while I drank the brook, and 

ate 
The goodly apples, all these things at 

once 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone, 
And thirsting, in a land of sand and 

thorns. 



"And then behold a woman 

door 
Spinning; and fair the house whe 

she sat. 
And kind the woman's eyes and i 

cent, 
And all her bearing gracious ; anc 

rose 
Opening her arms to meet me, as 

should say, 
' Rest here ; ' but when I touch'd 

lo ! she, too. 
Fell into dust and nothing, and 

house 
Became no better than a broken s 
And in it a dead babe ; and also 
Fell into dust, and I was left alon( 

"And on I rode, and greater 

my thirst. 
Then flash'd a yellow gleam across 

world. 
And where it smote the ploughs 

in the field. 
The ploughman left his ploughing. 

fell down 
Before it ; where it glitter'd on 

pail, 
The milkmaid left her milking, anc 

down 
Before it, and I knew not why, 

thought [r 

' The sun is rising,' tho' the sun 
Then was I ware of one that on 

moved 
In golden armor with a crown of g 
About a casque all jewels; and 

horse 
I'.i golden armor jewell'd everywhe 
And on the splendor came, fiashins 

blind ; 
And seem'd to me the Lord of all 

Vt^orld, 
Being so huge. But when I tho 

he meant 
To crush me, moving on me, lo ! 

too, 
Opened his arms to embrace me a 

came, 
And up I went and touch'd him, 

he, too. 



THE HOL y GRAIL, 



4^3 



For when the Lord of all things made 
Himself 
: Naked of glory for His mortal change, 
i " Take thou my robe," she said, " for 

id I rode on and found a mighty all is thine." 

And all her form, shone forth with 

sudden light 
So that the angels were amazed, and 

she 
Follow'd him down, and like a flying 

star 
Led on the gray-hair'd wisdom of the 

east ; 
But her thou hast not known: for 

what is this 
Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and 

thy sins ? 
Thou hast not lost thvself to save thy- 
self 
As Galahad.' When the hermit made 

an end, 
In silver armor suddenly Galahad 
shone 
one man oi an exuccuinj^ a^.. , Before us, and against the chapel door 
re is that goodly company,' said I, i Laid lance, and enter d, and we knelt 
; so cried out upon me ? ' and he in prayer. . , , , , 

^^ I And there the hermit slaked my burn- 

e anv voice to answer, and yet ; ing thirst, 

; And at the sacnng of the mass I saw 
and I The holy elements .alone ; but he : 

'Saw ye no more.? I, Galahad, saw 

the Grail, 
The Holy Grail, descend upon the 

shrine : 
I saw the fiery face as of a child 
That smote itself into the bread, and 

went ; 
And hither am I come; and never 

yet 
Hath what thy sister taught me first to 

see, . 

This Holy Thing, fail'd from my side, 

nor come 
Cover'd, but moving with me night 

and day, 
Fainter by day, but always in the 

night 
Blood-red, and sliding down the black- 

en'd marsh 
Blood-red, and on the naked mountain 
I top 



\to dust, and I was left alone 
/earying in a land of sand and 
lorns. 



.11, , , 

Dn the top, a city walFa : the 

)ires 

d with incredible pinnacles into 

saven. 

•,y the gateway stirr'd a crowd ; 

id these 

to me climbing, ' Welcome, Per- 

vale! 

mightiest and thou purest 
nong men ! ' 

;lad was I and clomb, but found 
: top 

.an, nor any voice. And thence 
past 

iro' a ruinous city, and I saw 
man had once dwelt there ; but 
lere I found 
one man of an exceeding age 



asp'd 

mce and what art thou 
ven as he spoke 

nto dust, and disappear' d, and I 
left alone once more, and cried in 
;rief, 

if I find the Holy Grail itself 
touch it, it will crumble into 
lust.' 

Lnd thence I dropt into a lowly 
^ale, 

as the hill was high, and where 
:he vale 

lowest, found a chapel and there- 
by 

ily hermit in a hermitage, 
,-hom I told my phantoms, and he 
said : 



O son, thou hast not true humility, 
highest virtue, mother of them 
all; 



414 



THE HOLY GkAlL. 



Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere 

below 
Blood-red. And in the strength of 

this I rode, 
Shattering all evil customs everywhere, 
And past thro' Pagan realms, and 

made them mine, 
And clashed with Pagan hordes, and i 

bore them down, 
And broke thro' all, and in the strength 

of this 
Come victor. But my time is hard at 

hand, 
And hence I go ; and one will crown 

me king 
Far in the spiritual city; and come 

thou, too, 
For thou shalt see the vision when 

I go.' 

"While thus he ' spake, his eye, 
dwelling on mine, 

Drew me, with power upon me, till I 
grew 

One with him, to believe as he be- 
lieved. 

Then, v^-hen the day began to wane, we 
went. 

" There rose a hill that none but 
man could climb, 

Scarr'd with a hundred wintry water- 
courses — 

Storm at the top, and when we gain'd 
it, storm 

Round us and death ; for every mo- 
ment glanced 

His silver arms and gloom'd : so quick 
and thick 

The lightnings here and there to left 
and right 

Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, 
dead. 

Yea, rotten with a hundred years of 
death, 

Sprang into fire : and at the base we 
found 

On either hand, as far as eye could 
see, 

A grejst black sWvimp and of an evil 
smell, 



Part black, part whiten'd with th 

bones of men. 
Not to b"e crost, save that some ancieni 

king 
Had built a Way, where, link'd wit 

many a bridge, 
A thousand piers ran into the prea 

Sea. 
And Galahad fled along them bridg 

by bridge. 
And every bridge as quickly as h 

crost 
Sprang into fire and vanish'd, iho' 

yearn'd 
To follow ; and thrice above him a 

the heavens 
Open'd and blaz'd with thunder sue 

as seem'd 
Shoutings of all the sons of God : an 

first [Sec 

At once I saw him far on the gre: 
In silver-shining armor starry-clear ; 
And o'er his head the holy vessel hun 
Clothed in white samite or a luminou 

cloud. 
And with exceeding swiftness ran th 

boat 
If boat it were— I saw not whence : 

came. 
And when the heavens open'd an 

blazed again 
Roaring, I saw him like a silver star- 
And had he set the sail, or had th 

boat 
Become a living creature clad wit 

v>'ings .? 
And o'er his head the holy vessel hun 
Redder than any rose, a joy to me, 
For now I knew the veil had bee 

withdrawn. 
Then in a moment when they blaze 

again 
Opening, I saw the least of little star.' 
Down on the waste, and straight b( 

yond the star 
I saw the spiritual city and all he 

spires 
And gateways in a glory like on 

pearl — ^ 
No larger, tho' the goal of all th 

saints— 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



415 



trike from the sea; and from the star 
there shot 
rose-red sparkle to the city, and 

iwelt, and I knew it was the Holy 
Grail. . [see. 

/hich never eves on earth agam shall 

hen fell the floods of heaven drown- 
ing the deep. 

.nd how my feet recross'd the death- 
ful ridge 

\o memory in me lives; but that 1 
touch'd 

"he chapel-doors at dawn I know ; and 
thence ^ , , , 

'aking my war-horse from the holy 
man, 

aad that no phantom vext me more, 
return'd , . , , 

'o whence I came, the gate of Arthur s 
war 

"O brother," ask'd Ambrosias,— 

"for in sooth 
rhese ancient books— and they would 

win thee— teem, 
Dnly I find not there this Holy Grail, 
VVith miracles and marvels like to 

these, 
STot all unlike; which oftentime 1 

read, ; ^^1 \ ' . 

Who read but on my breviary with 

rill my 'head swims; and then go 

forth and pass .j\ , 
Down to the little thorpe that lies so 

close, 
And almost plaster'd like a martins 

nest . 

To these old walls— and mingle with 

our folk ; 
And knowing every honest face of 

theirs, 
As well as ever shepherd knew his 

sheep, 
And every homely secret in then- 
hearts, . J 1 1 
Delight myself with gossip and old 

wives, 
And ills and aches, and teethings, 

lyings-in, 



And mirthful sayings, children of the 

place, 
That have no meaning half a league 

away : 
Or lulling random squabbles when 

they rise, 
Chaffer! ngs and chatterings at the 

market-cross, 
Rejoice, small man, in this small world 

of mine, [e^gs,— 

Yea, even in their hens and in their 
O brother, saving this Sir Galahad 
Came ye on none but phantoms in your 

quest. 
No man, no woman ? " 

Then, Sir Percivale : 
" All men, to one so bound by such a 

vow, 
And women were as phantoms. O my 

brother, 
Why wilt thou shame me to confess to 

'thee 
How ar I falter'd from my quest and 

vow? 
For after I had lain so many nights 
A bedmate of the snail and eft and 

snake, 
In grass and burdock, I Was changed 

to wan 
And meagre, and the vision had not 

come, 
And then I chanced upon a goodly 

town 
With one great dwelling in the middle 

of it ; 
Thither I made, and there was I dis- 

arm'd 
By maidens each as fair as any flower : 
But when they led me into hall, behold 
The Princess of that castle was the one,' 
Brother, and that one only, who had 

ever 
Made my heart leap ; for when I moved 

of old 
A slender page about her father's hall, 
And she a slender maiden, all my heart 
Went after her with longing : yet we 

twain 
Had never kiss'd a kiss, or vow'd a vow. 
And now I came upon her once again, 



4x6 



THE IIOL Y GRAIL. 



And one had wedded her, and he was 

dead, 
And all his land and wealth and state 

were hers. 
And while I tarried, every day she set 
A banquet richer than the day before 
By me ; for all her longing and her will 
Was toward nie as of old ; till one fair 

morn, 
I walking to and fro beside a stream 
That flash'd across her orchard under- 
neath 
Her castle-walls, she stole upon my 

walk, 
And calling me the greatest of all 

knights. 
Embraced me, and so kiss'd me the 

first time. 
And gave herself and all her wealth to 

me. 
Then I remcmber'd Arthur's warning 

word, 
That most of us would follow wander- 
ing fires, 
And the Quest faded in my heart. 

Anon, 
The heads of all her people drew to me, 
With supplication both of knees and 

tongue. 
' We have heard of thee : thou art our 

greatest knight : 
Our Lady says it, and we well believe : 
Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us, 
And thou shalt be as Arthur in our 

land.' 
O me, my brother ! but one night my 

vow 
Burnt me within, so that I rose and 

fled, 
But wail'd and wept, and hated mine 

own self, 
And ev'n the Holy Quest, and all but 

her ; 
Then after I was join'd with Galahad 
Cared not for her, nor anything upon 

earth." 

Then said the monk, " Poor men, 
when yule is cold. 
Must be content to sit by little fires. 
And this am I, so that vc care for me 



Ever so little ; yea, and blest be 

Heaven 
That brought thee here to this poor 

house of ours. 
Where all the brethren are so hard, to 

warm 
Mv cold heart with a friend ; and O the 

pity 
To find thine own first love once more 

—to hold. 
Hold her a wealthy bride within thine 

arms. 
Or all init hold, and then — cast her 

aside, 
Foregoing all her sweetness, like a 

weed. 
For we that want the warmth of double 

life. 
We that are plagued with dreams of 

something sweet 
Beyond all sweetness in a life so rich, — 
Ah, blessed Lord, I speak too earthly- 
wise, 
Seeing I never stray'd beyond the cell, 
But live like an old badger in his' earth, 
With earth about him everywhere, 

despite 
All fast and penance. Sa\v \t none 

beside. 
None of your knights ? " 



" Yea so," said Percivale : 
* One night my pathway swerving east, 

I saw 
The pelican on the casque of our Sir 

Bors 
All in the middle of the rising moon : 
And toward him spurr'd andhail'd him, 

and he me. 
And each made joy of either ; than he 

ask'd, 
* Where is he .'' liast thou seen him — 

Lancelot ? Once,' 
Said good Sir Bors, ' he dash'd across 

me — mad, 
And maddening what he rode : and 

when I cried, 
" Ridest thou then so hotly on a quest 
So holy ? " Laneclot shouted, " Stay 

me not ! 



THE HOL Y GRAIL. 



417 



I have been the sluggard, and I ride 

apace, 
For now there is a lion in the way." 
So vanish'd.' 

" Then Sir Bors had ridden on 
Softly, and sorrowing for our Lancelot, 
Because his former madness, once the 

talk 
And scandal of our table, had return'd; 
For Lancelot's kith and kin so worship 

him 
That ill to him is ill to them ; to Bors 
Beyond the rest : he well had been 

content 
Not to have seen, so Lancelot might 

have seen, 
The Holy Cup of healing ; and, indeed. 
Being so clouded with his grief and 

love, 
Sm.all heart was his after the Holy 

Quest : 
If God would send the vision, well : if 

not, 
The Quest and he were in the hands of 

Heaven. 

" And then, with small adventure 

met. Sir Bors 
Rode to the lonest tract of all the realm. 
And found a people there among their 

crags. 
Our race and blood, a remnant that 

were left 
Paynim amid their circles, and the 

stones 
They pitch up straight to heaven : and 

their wise men 
Were strong in that old magic which 

can trace 
The wandering of the stars, and scoff'd 

at him, 
And this high Quest as at a simple 

thing : 
Told him he follow'd-^almost Arthur 's 

words — 
A mocking fire : * what other fire than 

he, 
Whereby the blood beats, and the 

blossom blows. 
And the sea rolls, and all the world is 

warm'd ? ' 

27 



And when his answer chafed them, the 

rough crovvd. 
Hearing he had a difference with their 
I priests, 

I Seized him, and bound and plunged 

him into a cell 
Of great piled stones ; and lying 

bounden there 
In darkness thro' innumerable hours 
He heard the hollow -ringing heavens 

sweep 
Over him, till by miracle — what else ? 
Heavv as it was, a great stone slipt and 

fell. 
Such as no wind could move : and thro' 

the gap 
Glimmer'd the streaming scud : then 

came a night 
Still as the day was loud ; and thro' 

the gap 
The seven clear . stars of Arthur's 

Table Round — 
For, brother, so one night, because they 

roll 
Thro' such a round in heaven, we 

named the stars. 
Rejoicing in ourselves and in our king — 
And these, like bright eyes of familiar 

friends, 
In on him shone, * And then to me, to 

me,' 
Said good Sir Bors, 'beyond all hopes 

of mine, 
Who scarce had pray d or ask'd it for 

myself — 
Across the seven clear stars — O grace 

to me — 
In color like the fingers of a hand 
Before a burning taper, the sweet Grail 
Glided and past, and close upon it 

peal'd 
A sharp quick thunder.' Afterwards 

a m.aid, 
Who kept our holy faith among her kin 
In secret, entering loosed and let him 

go." 

To whom the monk : " And I re- 
member now 
That pelican on the casque : Sir Bor,» 
it was 



4i8 



THE HOL V GRAIL, 



Who spake so low and sadly at our 

board ; 
And mighty reverent at our grace was 

he: 
A square-set man and honest : and his 

eyes, 
An out-door sign of all the] warmth 

within, 
Smiled with his lips — a smile beneath 

a cloud, 
P.ut Heaven had meant it for a sunny 

one : 
Ay, ay, Sir Bors, who else ? But when 

ye reach'd 
The city, found ye all your knights 

return'd, 
Or was there sooth in Arthur's proph- 
ecy, 
Tell me, and what said each, and what 

the King ? 

Then answer'd Percivale : " And 

that can T, 
Brother, and truly : since the living 

words 
Of so great men as Lancelot and our 

King 
Pass not from door to door and out 

again. 
But sit within the house. O, when we 

reach'd 
The city, our horses stumbling as they 

trode 
On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, 
Crack'cl basilisks, and splinter'd cocka- 
trices, ^ l^ ' ■ _ 
And shatter'd talbots, which had left 

the stones 
Raw, that thev fell from, brought us to 

the hall. ' 

" And there sat Arthur on the da'is- 

throne. 
And those that had gone out upon the 

Quest, 
AVasted and worn, and but a tithe of 

them. 
And those that had not, stood before 

the King. 
Who, when he saw me, rose, and bade 

me hail. 



proves 
Our fear of some disastrous chance for 

thee 
On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding 

ford. 
So fierce a gale made havoc here of 

late 
Among the strange devices of our 

kings ; 
Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall 

of ours, 
Aifd from the statue Merlin moulded 

for us 
Half wrench'd a golden wing ; but now 

— the quest. 
This vision — hast thou seen the Holy 

Cup, 
That Joseph brought of old to Glas- 
tonbury ? ' 

" So when I t(;ld him all thyself hast 

heard, 
Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt 

resolve 
To pass away into the quiet life. 
He answer'd not, but, sharply turning, 

ask'd 
Of Gawain, ' Gawain, was this Quest 

for thee ? ' 

'* * Nay, lord,' said Gawain, ' not for 
such as I. 
Therefore I communed with a saintly 

man. 
Who made me sure the Quest was not 

for me. 
For I was much awearied of the Quest ; 
But found a silk pavilion in a field, 
And merry maidens in it ; and then 

this gale 
Tore my pavilion from the tenting-pin. 
And blew my merry maidens all about 
With all discomfort ; yea, and but for 

this, 
My twelvemonth and a day were pleas- 
ant to me.' 

" He ceased ; and Arthur turn'd to 
whom at first 
He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, 
push'd 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



419 



Athwart the throng to Lancelot, caught 

his hand, 
Held it, and there, half hidden by Iiim, 

stood. 
Until the King espied him, sa3'ing to 

him, 
' Hail, Bors I if ever loyal man and 

true 
Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail ; ' 

and Bors, 
' Ask me not, for I may not speak cf it, 
I saw it;' and the tears were in his 

eyes — 

" Then there remain'd but Lancelot, 

for the rest 
Spake but of sundry perils in the 

storm ; 
Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy 

Writ, 
Our Arthur kept his best until the las*:. 
' Thou, too, my Lancelot/ ask'd the 

King, ' my friend. 
Our mightiest, hath this Quest avail'd 

for thee ? ' 

'' ' Our mightiest ! ' answer'd Lance- 
lot, with a groan ; 

* O King ! ' — and when he paused, me- 
thought I spied 

A dying fire of madness in his eyes, — 

' O King, my friend; if friend of thine 
I be. 

Happier are those that welter in their 
sin, 

Swine in the mud, that cannot see 
for slime. 

Slime of the ditch : but in me lived a 
sin 

So strange, of such a kind, that all of 
pure, 

Noble, and knightly in me twined and 
clung 

Round that one sin, until the whole- 
some flower 

And poisonous grew together, each as 
each, 

Not to be pluck'd asunder; and when 
thy knights 

Sware, I sware with them only in the 
hope 



That could I touch or see the Holy 

Grail 
They might be pluck'd asunder : then 

I spake 
To one most holy saint, who wept and 

said, 
That save they could be pluck'd 

asunder, all 
My quest were but in vain ; to whom I 

vow'd 
That I would work according as he 

will'd. 
And forth I went, and while I yearn'd 

and strove 
To tear the twain asunder in my heart, 
My madness caiiie upon me as of old. 
And whipt me into waste fields far 

away ; 
There was I beaten down by little 

men, 
Mean knights, to whom the moving of 

my sword 
And shadow of my spear had been 

enow 
To scare them from me once ; and then 

I came 
All in my folly to the naked shore, 
Wide flats, where nothing but coarse 

grasses grew ; 
But such a blast, my King, began to 

blow, 
So loud a blast along the shore and 

sea, ■ [blast. 

Ye could not hear the waters for the 
Tho' heapt in mounds and ridges all 

the sea 
Drove like a cataract, and all the sand 
Swept like a river, and the clouded 

heavens 
Were shaken with the motion and the 

sound. 
And blackening in the sea-foam sway'd 

a boat. 
Half swallow'd in it, anchored with a 

chain ; 
And in my madness to myself I said, 
" I will embark and I will lose myself, 
And in the great sea wash away my 

sin." 
I burst the chain, I sprang into the 

boat. 



420 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



Seven days I drove along the weary 

deep, 
And with mc drove the moon and all 

the stars; 
And the wind fell, and on the seventh 

night 
I heard the shingle grinding in the 

surge, 
And felt the boat shock earth, and 

looking up, 
Behold, the enchanted towers of Car- 

bonek, 
A castle like a rock upon a rock. 
With chasm-like portals open to the 

sea, 
And steps that met the breaker ! there 

was none 
Stood near it but a lion on each side 
That kept the entrv, and the moon was 

full. 
Then from the boat I leapt, and up 

the stairs. 
There drew my sword. With sudden- 
flaring manes 
Those two great beasts rose upright 

like a man, 
Each gript a shoulder, and I stood be- 

tvv'cen ; 
And when I would have smitten them, 

heard a voice, 
** Doubt not, go forward ; if thou 

doubt, the beasts 
Will tear thee piecemeal ; " then with 

violence 
The sword was dashM from out my 

hand, and fell. 
And up into the sounding hall I past; 
But nothing in the sounding hall I saw. 
No bench nor table, painting on the 

wall 
Or shield of knight ; only the rounded 

moon 
Thro' the tall oriel on the rolling sea. 
But always in the quiet house I heard. 
Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark, 
A sweet voice singing in the topmost 

tower 
To the eastward : up I climb'd a thou- 
sand steps 
With pain : as in a dream I seem'd to 

climb 



Forever : at the last I reach'd a door, 
A light was in the crannies, and ] 

heard, 
" Glory and joy and honor to our Lord, 
And to the Holy Vessel of the Graih" 
Then in my madness I essay 'd the 

door ; 
It gave, and thro' a stormy glare, a 

heat 
As from a seventimes-heated furnace, 

I, 
Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I 

was, 
With such a fierceness t-hat I swoon'd 

away — 
O, yet methought I saw the IIolv 

Grail, 
All pall'd in crimson samite, and 

around 
Great angels, awful shapes, and wings 

and eyes. 
And but for all my madness and my 

sin, [saw 

And then my swooning, I had sworn I 
That which I saw ; but what I saw was 

veil'd 
And cover'd; and tliis quest was not 

for me.' 

"So speaking, and here ceasing 

Lancelot left 
The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain 

— nay, 
Brother, I need not tell thee foolish 

words, — 
A reckless and irreverent knight was 

he. 
Now bolden'd by the silence of hi& 

King. 
Well, I will tell thee : * O king, my 

liege,' he said, 
' Hath Gawain faii'd in any quest of 

thine ? 
When have I stinted stroke in foughten 

field } 
But as for thine, my good friend, Per- 

civale, 
Thy holy nun and thou have driven 

men mad, 
Yea, made our mightiest madder than 

our least. :^' 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



421 



But by mine eyes and by mine ears I 

swear, 
I will be deafer than the blue-e3-ed cat, 
And thrice as blind as any noonday 

, owl, 
To holy virgins in their ecstasies, 
Henceforward.' 

" ' Deafer,' said the blameless King, 
'■ Gawsin, and blinder unto holy things 
Hope not to make thyself by idle vows, 
Being too blind to have desire to see. 
But if indeed there came a sign from 

heaven, 
Blessed are Bors, Lancelot, and Perci- 

vale, 
For these have seen according to their 

sight. 
For every fiery prophet in old times, 
And all the sacred madness of the 

bard. 
When God made music thro' them, 

could but speak 
His music by the framework and the 

chord ; 
And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth. 

" * Nay — but thou errest, Lancelot : 

never yet 
Could all of true and noble in knight 

and man 
Twine round one sin, whatever it might 

be, 
Vvlth such a closeness, but apart there 

grew. 
Save that he were the swine thou 

spakest of, 
Some root of knighthood and pure 

nobleness ; 
Whereto see thou, that it may bear its 

flower. 

" ' And spake I not too truly, O my 
knights ? 

Was I too dark a prophet when I said 

To those who went upon the Holy 
Quest, 

That most of them would follow wand- 
ering fires, 

Lost in the quagmire? — lost to me and 
gone. 

And left me gazing at a barren board, 



And a lean Order — scarce returned a 

tithe— 
And out of those to whom the vision 

came 
My greatest hardly will believe he saw ; 
Another hath beheld it afar off, 
And leaving human wrongs to right 

themselves. 
Cares but to pass into the silent life. 
And one hath had the vision face to 

face, 
And now his chair desires him here va. 

vain, 
However they may crown him other- 
I where. 

" ' And some among you held, that 

if the King 
j Had seen the sight he would have 

sworn the vow : 
I Not easih> seeing that the King must 
I guard 

1 That which he rules, and is but as the 
! hind, 

To whom a space of land is given to 

plough, 
Vv'homaynot wander from the allotted 

field _ 
Before his work be done ; but, being 

done, 
Let visions of the night or of the day 
Come, as they will; and many a time 

they come. 
Until this earth he walks on seems not 

earth, 
This light that strikes his eyeball is 

not light, 
This air that smites his forehead is not 

air 
But vision — yea, his verv hands and 

feet— 
Li moments when he feels he cannot 

die, 
And knows him*self no vision to him- 
self, 
Nor the high God a vision, nor that 

One 
Who rose again : ye have seen w';at ye 

have seen.' 

" So spake the king : I knew not all 
he meant." 



422 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 

King Arthur made new knights to 

fill the gap 
Left by the Holy Quest ; and as he 

sat 
In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors 
Were softly sundcr'd, and thro' those 

a youth, 
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields 
Past, and the sunshine came along 

with him. 

"Make me thy knight, because I 

know, Sir King, 
All that belongs to knighthood, and I 

love." 
Such was his cry ; for having heard the 

King 
Had let proclaim a tournament — the 

prize 
A golden circlet and a knightly sword. 
Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won 
The golden circlet, for himself the 

sword : 
And there were those who knew him 

near the King 
And promised for him : and Arthur 

made him knight. 

And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of 

the isles — 
But lately come to his inheritance. 
And lord of many a barren isle was 

he- 
Riding at noon, a day or twain before. 
Across the forest call'd of Dean, to 

find 
Caerleon and the King, had felt the 

sun 
Beat like a strong knight on his helm, 

and reel'd 
Almost to falling from his horse ; but 

saw 
Near him a ^nound of even-sloping 

side, 
Whereon a hundred stately beeches 

grew, 
And here and there great hollies under 

them. 
But for a mile all round was open 

space, 



And fern and heath : and slowly Pel- 
leas drew 

To that dim day, then binding his good 
horse 

To a tree, cast himself down j and as; 
he lay 

At random looking over the bro-.yn 
earth 

Thro' that green-gloommg twilight of 
the grove, 

It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern with- 
out 

Burnt as a living fire of emeralds. 

So that his eyes were dazzled lookir;g 
at it. 

Then o'er it crost the dimness of a 
cloud 

Floating, and once the shadow of a bird 

Flying, and then a fawn ; and his eyes 
closed. 

And since he loved all maidens, but 
no maid 

In special, half awake he whisper'd, 
" Where ? 

O where t I love thee, tho' I know 
thee not. 

For fair thou art and pure as Guine- 
vere, 

And I will make thee with my spear 
and sword 

As famous — O my queen, my Guine- 
vere, 

For I will be thine Arthur when we 
meet." 
Suddenly waken'd with a sound of 
talk 

And laughter at the limit of the wood, 

And glancing thro' the hoary boles, he 
saw. 

Strange as to some old prophet might 
have seem'd 

A vision hovering on a sea of fire, 

Damsels in divers colors like the cloud 

Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them 

On horses, and the horses richly trapt 

Breast-high in that bright line of 
bracken stood : 

And all the damsels talk'd confusedly. 

And one vv'as pointing this way, and 
one that, 

Because the way was lost. 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



433 



And Pelleas rose, 
And loosed his horse, and led him to 

the light. 
There she that seem'd the chief among 

them said, 
*' In happy time behold our pilot-star ! 
Youth, we are damsels-errant, and \ve 

ride, 
Arm'd as ye see, to tilt against the 

knights 
There at Caericon, but have lost our 

way : 

rigiit ? to left ? straight forward ? 

back again ? 
Which ? ten us quickly." 

And Pelleas gazing thought, 
" Is Guinevere herself so beautiful ?" 
For large her violet eyes look'd, and 

her bloom 
A rosy dawn kindled in stainless 

heavens. 
And round her limbs, mature in woman- 
hood. 
And slender was her hand and small 

her shape, 
And but for those large eyes, the 

haunts of scorn. 
She might have seem'd a toy to trifle 

with. 
And pass and care no more. But 

while he gazed 
The beauty of her flesh abash'd the 

boy. 
As tho' it were the beauty of her soul : 
For as the base man, judging of the 

good. 
Puts his own baseness in him by de- 
fault 
Of v>-ill and nature, so did Pelleas lend 
All the young beauty of his own soul 

to hers, 
Believing her; and when she spake to 

him, 
Stammer'd, and could not make her a 

reply. 
For out of the waste islands had he 

come, 
Where saving his own sisters he had 

known 
Scarce any but the women of his isles, 



Rough wives, that laugh'd and scream'd 

against the gulls, 
Makers of nets, and living from the 

sea. 

Then with a slow smile turn'd the 

lady round 
And look'd upon her people ; and as- 

when 
A stone is flung into some sleeping 

tarn. 
The circle widens till it lip the marge, 
Spread the slow smile thro' all her 

company. 
Three knights were thereamong; and 

they too smiled. 
Scorning him; for the lady was Et- 

tarre. 
And she was a great lady in her land. 

Again she said, " O \yild and of the 

woods, 
Knowest thou not the fashion of our 

speech .'' 
Or have the Heavens but given thee a 

fair face, 
Lacking a tongue ? " 

" O damsel," answ-er'd he, 
"I woke from dreams; and coming 

out of gloom 
Was dazzled by the sudden light, and 

crave 
Pardon : but will ye to Caerleon ? I 
Go likewise: shall I lead vou to the 

King?" 

" Lead then," she said ; and thro' the 

woods they went. 
And while they rode, the meaning in 

his eyes, 
His tenderness of manner, and chaste 

awe, 
His broken utterances and bashful- 

ness, 
Were all a burden to her, and in her 

heart 
She mutter'd, " I have lighted on a 

fool, . . 
Raw, yet so stale I " but since her mind 

was bent 



424 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



On hearing, after trumpet blown, her 

name 
And title, " Queen of Beauty," in the 

lists 
Cried — and beholding him so strong, 

she thought 
That peradventure he will fight for 

me, 
And win the circlet : therefore flatter'd 

him, 
Being so gracious, that he wellnigh 

deem'd 
His wish by hers was echo'd ; and her 

knights 
And all her damsels too were gracious 

to him. 
For she was r. great lady. 

A nd when they reach'd 
Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she, 
Taking his hand, " O the strong hand," 

she said, 
" See ! look at mine ! but wilt thou 

fight for me, 
And win me this fine circlet, Pellcas, 
That I may love thee ?" 

Then his helpless heart 
Leapt, and he cried, " Ay ! wilt thou if 

I win ? " 
" Ay, that will I," she answer'd, and 

she laugh'd. 
And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it 

from her ; 
Then glanced askew at those three 

knights of hers. 
Till all her ladies laugh'd along with 

her. 

** O happy world," thought Pelleas, 

" all, meseems, 
Aie happy; I the happiest of them 

all." 
Nor slept that night for pleasure in 

his blood. 
And green wood-ways and eyes among 

the leaves ; 
Then being on the morrow knighted, 

sware 
To love one only, and as he came 

awav. 



The men who met him rounded on 

their heels 
And wonder'd after him, because his 

face 
Shone like the countenance of a priest 

of old 
Against the flame about a sacrifice 
Kindled by fire from heaven : so glad 

was he. 

Then Arthur made vast banquets, 

and strange knights 
From the four winds came in and 

each one sat, 
Tho' served with choice from air, land, 

stream, and sea, 
Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his 

eyes 
His neighbor's make and might : and 

Pelleas look'd 
Noble among the noble, for he dream'd 
His lady loved him, and he knew him- 
self 
Loved of the King : and him his new- 

mnde knight 
Worsb'ot, whose lightest whisper 

moved him more 
Than all the ranged reasons of the 

world. 

Then blush'd and brake the morning 

of the jousts, 
And this was call'd "The Tournament 

of Youth : " 
For Arthur, loving his young knight, 

withheld 
His older and his mightier from the 

lists, 
That Pelleas might obtain his lady's 

love, 
Accordmg to her promise, and remain 
Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had 

the jousts 
Down in the flat field by the shore of 

Usk 
Holden : the gilded parapets were 

crown'd 
With faces, and the great tower fill'd 

with eyes 
Up to the summit, and the trumpets 

blew. 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



'42.5 



There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the 

field 
With honor: so by that strong hand 

of his 
The sword and golden circlet were 

achieved. 

Then rang tli£ shout his lady loved : 

the heat 
Of pride and glory fired her fa^e ; her 

eye 
Sparkled; she caught the circlet from 

his lance, 
And there before the people cro\vn'd 

herself : 
So for the last time she was gracious 

to tiim. 

Then at Caerleon for a space — her 

look 
Bright for all others, cloudier on her 

knight — 
Linger'd Ettarre: and seeing Pelleas 

droop, 
Said Guinevere, " We marvel at thee 

much, 

damsel, wearing this unsunny face 
To him who won thee glory 1 " and she 

said, 
*' Had ye not held your Lancelot in 

your bower, 
My Queen, he had not won." V/hereat 

the Queen, 
As one w^hose foot is bitten by an ant. 
Glanced down upon her, turn'd and 

went her way. 

But after, when her damsels, and 

herself, 
And those three knights all set their 

faces home, 
Sir Pelleas follov/'d. She that saw 

him cried, 
" Damsels — and yet I should be shamed 

to say it — 

1 cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him 

back 
Among yourselves. Would rather that 

we had 
Some rough old knight who knew the 

worldly way, 



Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride 
And jest with : take him to you, keep 

him off, 
And pamper him with papmeat, if ye 

v/ill, 
Old milky fables of the wolf and 

sheep, 
Such as the wholesome mothers tell 

their boys. 
Nay, should ye try him v.ith a merry 

one 
To find his mettle, good : and if he fly 

us, 
Sm.all matter! let him." This the 

damsels heard, 
And mindful of her small and cruel 

hand. 
They, closing round him thro' the 

journey home. 
Acted her hest, and always from her 

side [vice, 

Restrain'd him with all manner of de- 
So that he could not come to speech 

with her. 
And when she gain'd her castle, up- 

sprang the bridge, 
Down rang the grate of iron thro' the 

groove. 
And he v.-as left alone in open field. 

" These be the ways of ladies," Pel- 
leas thought, 

"■ To those v;-ho love them, trials of 
our faith. 

Yea, let her prove me to the utter- 
m:)st. 

For loyal to the uttermost am I." 

So made his moan ; and, darkness fall- 
ing, sought 

A priory not far off, there lodged, but 
rose 

With morning every day, and moist or 
dry 

Full-arm'd upon his charger all day 
long 

Sat by the walls, and no one open'd to 
him. 

And this persistence turn'd her scorn 
to wrath. 
Then calling her three knights, she 
charged them, " Out ! 



426 



PEL LEAS AND ETTARRE. 



And drive him from the walls."' And 

out they came, 
But Pellcas overthrew them as they 

dash'd 
Against him one by one; and these rc- 

turn'd, 
But still he kept his watch beneath the 

wall. 

Thereon her Vv'rath became a hate ; 

and once, 
A week beyond, while walking on the 

walls 
With her three knights, slie pointed 

downward, '* Look, 
He haunts me — I cannot breathe — be- 
sieges me ; 
Down ! strike him ! put ray hate into 

your strokes, 
And drive him from my walls." And 

down they went, 
And Pelleas overthrew them one by 

one; 
And from the tower above him cried 

Ettarre, 
*' Bind him, and bring him in." 

He heard her voice ; 

Then let the strong hand, which had 
overthrown 

Her minion-knights, by those he over- 
threw 

Be bounden straight, and so they 
brought him in. 

Then when he came before Ettarre, 

the sight 
Of her rich beauty made him at one 

glance 
More bondsman in his heart than in 

his bonds. 
Yet with good cheer he spake, " Be- 
hold me, Lady, 
A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will ; 
And if thou keep me in thy donjon 

here, 
Content am I so that I see thy face 
But once a day : for I have sworn my 

vows. 
And thou hast given thy promise, and 

I know 



That all these pains are trials of my 

faith, 
And that thyself when thou hast seen 

me strain'd 
And sifted to the utmost, wilt at 

length 
Yield me thy love and know me foi 

thy knight." 

Then she began to rail so bitterly, 
With 'all her damsels, he was stricken 

mute ; 
But when she mock'd his vows and the 

great King, 
Lighted on words : " For pity of thine 

own self, 
Peace, Lady, peace : is he not thine and 

mine " 
" Thou fool," she said, " I never heard 

his voice 
But long'd to break away. Unbind 

him now. 
And thrust him out of doors ; for save 

he be 
Fool to the midmost marrow of his 

bones, 
He will return no more." And those, 

her three, 
Laugh'd, and unbound, and thrust him 

from the gate. 

And after this, a week beyond, again 
She call'd them, saying, "There he 

watches yet. 
There like a dog before his master's 

door ! 
Kick'd, he returns ; do ye not hate him, 

ye? 
Ye know yourselves : how can ye bide 

at peace. 
Affronted with his fulsome innocence ? 
Are ye but creatures of the board and 

bed. 
No men to strike ? fall on him all at 

once. 
And if ye slay him I reck not : if ye fail. 
Give ye the slave mine order to be 

bound, 
Bind him as heretofore, and bring him 

in : 
It may be ye shall slay him in his 

bonds." 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



427 



She spake ; and at her will they 

couch'd their spears, 
Three against one : and Gawain passing 

bv, 
Bound upon solitary aaventure, saw 
Low down beneath the shadow of those 

towers 
A villany, three to one : and thro' his 

heart 
The fire of honor and all noble deeds 
Flash'd, and he call'd, ** I strike upon 

thy side — 
The caitiffs!" "Nay," said Tclleas, 

" but forbear ; 
He needs no aid who doth his lady's 

will." 

So Gawain, looking at the villany 

done, 
Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness 
Trembled and quiver'd, as the dog, 

withheld 
A moment from the vermin that he sees 
Before him, shivers, ere he springs and 

kills. 

And Pelleas overthrew them, one to 
three ; 

And they rose up, and bound, and 
brought him in. 

Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, 
burn'd 

Full on her knights in many an evil 
name 

Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten 
hound : 

'•' Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to 
touch, 

Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust 
him out, 

And let who will release him from his 
bonds. 

And if he comes again" — there she 
brake short ; 

And Pelleas answer'd, " Lady, for in- 
deed 

I loved you and I deem'd you beauti- 
ful, 

I cannot brook to see your beauty 
marr'd 

Thro' evil spite : and if ye love me not, 



I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn: 
I had liefer ye were worthy of my love, 
Than to be loved again of you — fare- 
well ; 
And tho' ye kill my hope, not yet my 

love. 
Vex not yourself : ye will not see me 
more." 

While thus he spake, she gazed upon 

the man 
Of princely bearing, tho' in bonds, and 

thought, 
" Why have I push'd him from me ? 

this man loves, 
If love there be : yet him I loved not. 

W^hy ? 
I deem'd him fool .? yea, so ? or that in 

him 
A something — was it nobler than my- 
self ?— 
Seem'd my reproach ? Pie is not of my 

kind. 
He could not love me, did he knov,- me 

well. 
Nay, let him go — and quickly." And 

her knights 
Laugh'd net, but thrust him bounden 

out of door. 

Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him 

from his bonds. 
And flung them o'er the walls ; and 

afterward 
Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's 

I'ag, 
" Faith of my body," he said, " and art 

thou not — 
Yea, thou art he, whom late our Arthur 

made 
Knight of his table ; yea and he that 

won 
The circlet ? wherefore hast thou so de- 
famed 
Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest. 
As let these caitiffs on thee work their 

will ? " 

And Pelleas answer'd, " O, their 
wills are hers 
For whom I won the circlet ; and mine, 
hers. 



428 



PELLEAS AND ETTAKKE. 



Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, 

Marr'd tho' it be with spite and mock- 
ery now, 

Other than when I found her in the 
woods ; 

And tho' she hath mc bounden but in 
spite, 

And all to flout me, when they bring 
me in. 

Let me be bounden, I shall see her 
face ; 

Else must I die thro' mine unhappi- 
ness." 

And Gavvain answer'd kindly tho' in 

scorn, 
" Whv, let my lady bind me if she will, 
And let my lady beat me if she will : 
But an she send her delegate to thrall 
These fighting hands of mine — Christ 

kill me then 
But I will slice him handless by the 

wrist, 
And let my lady sear the stump for him. 
Howl as he may. But' hold meforyour 

friend: 
Come, ye know nothing : here I pledge 

my troth. 
Yea, by the honor of the Table Round, 
I will be leal to thee and work thy work, 
And tame thy jailing princess to thine 

hand. 
Lend me thine horse and arms, and I 

will say 
That I have slain thee. She will let 

me in 
To hear the manner of thy fight and 

fall; 
Then, when I come within her counsels, 

then 
From prime to vespers will I chant thy 

praise 
As prowest knight and truest lover, 

more 
Than any have sung the living, till she 

long 
To have thee back in lusty life again. 
Not to be bound, save by white bonds 

and warm. 
Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now 

^y horse 



And armor : let me go : be comforted : 
Give me three days to melt her fancy, 

and hope 
The third night hence will bring thcc 

news of gold." 

Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his 

arms, 
Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and 

took 
Gawain's, and said, " Betray me not, 

but help — 
Art thou not he whom men call light-of- 

love ? " 
*' Ay," said Gawain, " for women be 

so light." 
Then bounded forward to the castle 

walls, 

. raise 

neck, 

And winded it, and that so musically 
That all the old echoes hidden in the 

wall 
Rang out like hollow woods at hunting 

tide. 

Up ran a score of damsels to the 

tower ; 
" A vaunt," they cried, " our lady loves 

thee not." 
But Gawain lifting up his visor said, 
" Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur's 

court, 
And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye 

hate : 
Behold his horse and armor. Open 

gate. 
And I will make you merry." 

And down the^' ran, 
Her damsels, crying to their lady, "Lo ! 
Pelleas is dead— he told us, he that 

hath 
His horse and armor : will ye let him 

in.' 
He slew him ! Gawain, Guv.nin of the 

court, 
Sir Gav.-ain— there he waits below the 

wall. 
Blowing his bugle as who should say 

him nav." 



FELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



429 



And so, leave given, straight on thro' 

open door 
Rode Gawain, vvhom she greeted cour- 
teously. 
"Dead, is 'it so?" she ask'd. "Ay, 

ay," said he, 
" And oft in dying cried upon your 

name." 
" Pity on him," she answer'd, '* a good 

knight, 
But never let me bide one hour at 

peace." 
" Ay," thought Gawain, "and ye be fair 

enow : 
But I to your dead man have given mv 

troth. 
That whom ye loathe him will I make 

you love." 

So these three days, aimless about 

the land. 
Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering 
Vv^aited, until the third night brought a 

moon, 
With promise of large light on woods 

and ways. 

The night was hot : he could not rest , 

but rode 
Ere midnight to her walls, and bound 

his horse 
Hard by the gates. Vv'ide open were 

the'gates, 
And no watch kept ; and in thro' these 

he past, 
And heard but his own steps, and his 

own heart [self, 

Beating, for nothing moved but his own 
And his own shadow. Then he crost 

the court, 
And saw the postern portal also wide 
Yawning ; and up aslope of garden, all 
Of roses white and red, and wild ones 

mixt 
And overgrowing them, went on*, and 

found. 
Here' too, all hush'd below the mellow 

moon. 
Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave 
Came lightening downward, and so spilt 

itself 
Among the roses, and was lost again. 



j Then was he v.-are that white pavil- 
i ions rose, 

Three from the 'oushes, gilden-peakt : 
I in one, 

Red after revel, droned her lurdan 
knights 

Slumbering, and their three squires 
across their feet : 

In one, their malice on the placid lip 

Froz'n by sweet sleep, four of her dam- 
sels lay : 

And in the third, the circlet of the 
jousts 

Bound on her brovv', were Gawain and 
Ettarre. 

Back, as a hand that oushes thro' the 

leaf 
To find a nest and feels a snake, he 

drew : 
Back, as a coward slinks from what he 

fears 
To cope with, or a traitor proven, or 

hound 
Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame 
Creep w:ith his shadow thro' the court 

again. 
Fingering at his sv/ord handle until he 

stood 
There on the castle-bridge once more, 

and thought, 
" I will go back, and slay them where 

they lie." 

And so went back, and seeing them 

yet in sleep 
Said, "Ye, that so dishallow the holy 

sleep. 
Your sleep is death," and drew the 

sword, and thought, 
"What I slay a sleeping knight? the 

King hath bound 
And sworn me to this brotherhood ; " 

again, 
" Alas that ever a knight should be so 

false." 
Then turn'd, and so return'd, and groan- 
ing laid 
The naked sword athwart their naked 

throats, 
There left it, and them sleeping; and 

she lay, 



430 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



The circlet of the tourney round her 

brows, 
And the sword of the tourney across her 

throat. 

And forth he past, and mounting on 

his liorse 
Stared at her towers that, larger than 

themselves 
In their 'own darkness, throng'd into 

the moon. 
Then crush'd the saddle with his thighs, 

and clench'd 
His hands, and madden'd with himself 

and moan'd : 

'* Would they have risen against me 

in their blood 
At the last day .^ I might have answer'd 

them 
Even before high God. O towers so 

strong, 
So solid, would that even while I gaze 
The crack of earthquake chivering to 

your base 
Split you, and Hell burst up your har- 
lot roofs 
Bellowing, and charr'd you thro' and 

thro' within, 
Black as the harlot's heart — hollov; as 

a skull ! 
Let the fierce east scream thro' your 

eyelet-holes, 
And whirl the dust of harlots round 

and round 
In dung and nettles i his3, snake — I 

saw him there — 
Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. Who 

yells 
Here in the still sweet summer night, 

but I— 
I, the poor PcUcas whom she call'd 

her fool t 
Fool, beast— he, sh.c. or 1 1 myself 

most fool ; 
Beast too, as lacking human wit — dis- 
graced, 
Dishonor'd all for trial of true love — 
Love ? — we be all alike ; only the 

king 
Hath made us fools and liars. O 

noble vows I 



great and sane and simple race of 

brutes 
That own no lust because they have 

no law ! 
For why should I have loved her to 

my shame ? 

1 loathe her, as I loved her to my 

shame. 
I never loved her, I but lusted for 

her — 
Away — " 

He dash'd the rowel into his horse, 
And bounded forth and vanished thro' 
the night. 

Then she, that felt the cold touch on 

her throat. 
Awaking knew the sword, and turn'd 

herself 
To Gawain : " Liar, for thou hast not 

slain 
This Pellcas ! here he stood and might 

have slain 
Me and thyself." And he that tells 

the tale 
Sa^'s that her ever-veering fancy turn'd 
To Pelleas, as the one true knight on 

earth, 
And only lover ; and thro' her love her 

life 
Wasted and pined, desiring him in 
' vain. 

But he by wild and wav, for half the 

night, 
And over hard and soft, striking the 

sod 
From out tlie soft, the spark from off 

the hard. 
Rode till the star above the wakening 

sun, 
Beside that tower where Percivale was 

cowl'd, 
Glanced from the rosy forehead of the 

dawn. 
For so the words were flash'd into his 

heart 
He knew not whence or wherefore ; 

"O sweet star, 
Pure on the virgin forehead of the 

dawn." 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



43* 



And liicie he would have wept, but 

felt his eves 
Harder and drier than a fountain bed 
In summer: thither came the village 

girls 
A-nd linger" d talking, and they come no 

more 
Till the sweet heavens have fiU'd it 

from the heights 
Again with living waters in the change 
Of seasons : hard his eyes ; harder his 

heart 
Seem'd; but so weary were his limbs, 

that he, 
Gasping, " Of Arthur's hall am I, but 

here, 
Here let me rest and die," cast himself 

down, 
And gulf'd his griefs in inmost sleep ; 

so lay, 
Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain 

fired 
The hall of Merlin, and the morning 

star 
Reel'd in the smoke, brake into flame, 

and fell. 

He woke, and being ware of some 
one nigh, 

Set hands upon him, as to tear him, 
crying 

" False ! and I held thee pure as Gui- 
nevere." 

But Percivale stood near him and 
replied, 

" Am I but false as Guinevere is pure ? 

Or art thou mazed with dreams? or 
being one 

Of our "free-spoken Table hast not 
heard 

That Lancelot " — there he check'd him- 
self and paused. 

Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as 

v;ith one 
Who gets a wound in battle, and the 

sword 
That made it plunges thro' the wound 

again 
And pricks it deeper : and he shrank 

and wail'd, 



" Is the Queen false ? " and Percivale 

was mute. 
" Have any of our Round Table held 

their vows ? " 
And Percivale made answ^er not a 

word. 
"Is the king true?" "The king!" 

said Percivale. 
" Why then let men couple at once 

with wolves. 
What! art thou mad?" 

But Pelleas, leaping up, 
Ran thro' the doors and vaulted on 

his horse 
And fled: small pity upon his horse 

had he. 
Or on hiniself, or any, and when he 

met 
A cripple; one that held a hand for 

alms — 
Hunch'd as he was, and like an old 

dwarf elm 
That turns its back on the salt blast, 

the boy 
Paused not but overrode him, shouting, 

" False, 
And false with Gawain!" and so left 

him bruised 
And batter'd, and fled on, and hill and 

wood 
W^ent ever streaming by him till the 

gloom, 
That follows on the turning of the 

world, 
Darken'd the common path : he 

twitch'd the reins, 
And made his beast that better knew 

it, swerve 
Now off it and now on ; but when he 

saw 
High up in heaven the hall that Merlin 

built. 
Blackening against the dead-green 

stripes of Even, 
" Black nest of rats," he groan' d, "ye 

build too high." 

Not long thereafter from the city 
gates 
Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, 



432 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



Warm with a gracious parting from 

the Queen, 
Peace at his heart, and gazing at a 

star 
And marvelling what it was : on whom 

the bo}-, [grass 

Across the silent seeded meadow- 
Borne, clash'd : and Lancelot, saying, 

" What name hast thou 
That ridest here so blindly and so 

hard ? " 
" I have no name," he shouted, " a 

scourge am I, 
To lash the treasons of the Table 

Round." 
" Yea, but thy name ?" "I have many 

names," he cried ; 
" I am wrath and shame and hate and 

evil fame, [blast 

And like a poisonous wind I pass to 
And blaze the crime of Lancelot and 

the Queen." 
" First over me," said Lancelot, *' shalt 

thou pass." 
" Fight, therefore," yell'd the other, 

and either knight 
Drew back a space, and when they 

closed, at once 
The weary steed of Pelleas floundering 

flung 
His rider, who called out from the 

dark field. 
•' Thou art false as Hell : slay me : I 

have no sword." 
Then Lancelot, " Yea, between thy 

lips — and sharp ; 
But here will I disedge it by thy 

death." 
".Slay then," he shrick'd, "myAvill is 

to be slain." 
And Lancelot, with his heel upon the 

fall'n, 
Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then 

spake : 
'= Rise, weakling; lam Lancelot; say 

thy say." 

And Lancelot slowly rode his war- 
horse back 
To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief 
while 



Caught his unbroken limbs from the 

dark field. 
And follow'd to the city. It chanced 

that both 
Brake into hall together, worn and 

pale. 
There with her knights and dames was 

Guinevere. 
Full wonderingly she gazed on Lan- 
celot 
So soon returned, and then on Pelleas, 
Him who had not greeted her, but cast 

himself 
Down on a bench, hard-breathing. 

" Have ye fought 'i " 
She ask'd of Lancelot. ** Ay, my 

Queen," he said. 
" And thou hast overthrown him ? " 

" Ay, my Queen." 
Then she, turning to Pelleas, " O young 

knight. 
Hath the great heart of knighthood in 

thee fail'd 
So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly, 
A fall from him.^" Then, for he an- 
swer 'd not, 
*' Or hast thou other griefs ? If I, the 

Queen, 
May help them, loose thy tongue, and 

let me know." 
But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce 
She quail'd ; and he, hissing " I have 

no sword," 
Sprang from the door into the dark. 

The Queen 
Look'd hard upon her lover, he on 

her ; 
And each foresaw the dolorous day to 

be: 
And all talk died, as in a grove all 

song 
Beneath the shadow of some bird of 

prey, 
Then a long silence came upon the 

hall. 
And Modred thought, "The time is 

hard at hand." 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



433 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

That story which the bold Sir Be- 

divere, 
First made and latest left of all the 

knights, 
Told, when the man was no more than 

a voice 
In the white winter of his age, to those 
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other 

minds. 

Before that last weird battle in the 
west 
There came on Arthur sleeping, 

Gawain kill'd 
In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain 

blown 
Along a wandering wind, and past his 

ear 
Went shrilling, " Hollow, hollow all 

_ delight ! 
Hail, king! to-morrow thou shalt pass 

away. 
Farewell ! there is an isle of rest for 

thee. 
And I am blown along a wandering 

wind, 
And hollow, hollow, hollow all de- 
light." 
And famter onward like wild birds 

that change [way 

Their season in the night and wail their 
From cloud to cloud, down the long 

wind the dream 
Shrill'd ; but in going mingled with 

dim cries 
Far in the moonlit haze amons: the 

hills, 
As of some lonely citv sack'd bv night. 
W^hen all is ^ lost, and wife and child ' Theking"ilo fights his people fights 



This heard the bold Sir Bedivere 

and spake : 
" O me, my king, let pass whatever 

will. 
Elves, and the harmless glamour of 

the field ; 
But in their stead thy name and glory 

cling 
To all high places like a golden cloud 
Forever : but as yet thou shalt not 

pass. 
Light was Gawain in life, and light in 

death 
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the. 

man ; 
And care not thou for dreams from 

him, but rise— 
I hear the steps of Modred in the west, 
And with him many of thy people, and 

knights 
Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but 

grosser grown 
Than heathen, spitting at their vows 

and thee. 
Right well in heart they know thee for 

the King. 
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old." 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Be- 
divere : 

" Far other is this battle in the west 

Whereto we move, than when we strove 
in youth. 

And thrust the heathen from the 
Roman wall, 

And shook him thro' the north. Ill 
doom is mine 

To war against my people and my 
knights. 



with wail 



himself. 



Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke ' And they my knights, who loved 



and caird 



once, the stroke 



" Who spake ?_ A dream. O light That strikes them'dead is as mv death 

_ upon the wind 
Thine, Gawain 



to me. 
,, ,. .'^'^s t^- voice— are Yet let us hence, and find or feel a 

these dim cries way 



Thine .> or doth all that haunts the 
waste and wild 



1 hro' this blind haze, which ever 
I saw 



Mourn, knowing it will go along with j One lying in the dust at Almesburv, 

^^' „ I Hath folded in the passes of the world." 

28 



434 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR, 



and moved his 



further fly the 
when the great 



Then rose the Kin 
host by night, 
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by 

league, 
l-"!ack to the sunset bound of Lyon- 

nesse — 
A land of old upheaven from the abyss 
i:v fire, to sink into the abyss again ; 
\\'here fragments of forgotten peoples 

dwelt, _ 

And the long mountams ended m a 

coast 
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 
. The phantom circle of a moaning sea. 
There the pursuer could pursue no 

more, 
And he that fled no 

king ; 
And there, that day 

light of heaven 
Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year. 
On the waste sand by the waste sea 

they closed. 
Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight 
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the 
west. [sea: 

A deathwhite mist slept over sand and 
Whereof the chill, to him who breathed 

it, drew 
Down with his blood, till all his heart 

w^as cold 
With formless fear; and ev'n on 

Arthur fell 
Confusion, since he saw not whom he 

fought, 
For friend and foe were shadows ui the 

mist. 
And friend slew friend not knowing 

whom he slew : 
And some had visions out of golden 

youth, 
And some beheld the faces of old 

ghosts 
Look in upon the battle; and in the 

mist 
Was many a noble deed, many a base, 
And chance and craft and strength in 

single fights, 
And ever and anon with host to host 
Shocks, and the splintering spear, the 
hard mail hewn, 



Shield-breakings, and the clash of 

brands, the crash 
Of battleaxes on shatter'd helms, and 

shrieks 
After the Christ, of those who falling 

down 
Looked up for heaven, and only saw 

the mist ; 
And shouts of heathen and the traitor 

knights. 
Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous 

blasphemies, 
Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of 

the lungs 
In that close mist, and cryings for the 

light, 
ISIoans of the dying, and voices of the 

dead. 



Last, as by some one death-bed after 
wail 
Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' 

death 
Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that 

shore, 
Save for some whisper of the seething 

seas, 
A dead hush fell ; but when the dolor- 
ous day 
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, 

came 
A bitter wind, clear from the North, 

and blew 
The mist aside, and with that wind the 

tide 
Rose, and the pale king glanced across 

the field 
Of battle : but no man was moving 

there ; 
Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, 
Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave 
Break in among dead faces, to and fro 
Swaying the helpless hands, and up and 

"down 
Tumbling the hollo\v helmets, of the 

fallen, 
And shiver'd brands that once had 

fought with Rome, 
And rolling far along the gloomy shores 
The voice of davs of old and days to be. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



43: 



Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere, 
And whiter than the mist that all day 

long 
Had held the field of battle was the 

King : 

" Hearest thou this great voice that 

shakes the world, 
And wastes the narrow realm whereon 

Ave move, 
And beats upon the faces of the dead, 
My dead, as tho' they had not died for 

me ? — 
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n 
Confusion, till I know not what I am., 
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be 

king. 
Behold, I seem but king among the 

dead." 

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere : 

'* My King, 
King everywhere ! and so the dead 

have kings. 
There also will I worship thee as king. 
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I 

live 
"Who love thee ; but who hates thee, he 

that brought 
heath 

stands, 
Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine 

house." 

Then spake the king: "My house 

hath been my doom. 
But call not thou this traitor of my 

house 
Who hath but dwelt benoath one roof 

with me. 
My house are rather they who sware 

my vows, 
Yea, even while they brake them, 

own'd me king. 
And well for thee, saying in my dark 

hour, 
^Vhen all the purport of mv throne 

hath fail'd. 
That quick or dead thou boldest me 

for king. 



King am I, whatsoever be their cry ; 
And one last act of knighthood shalt 

thou see 
Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this 

the king 
Made at the man : then Moored smote 

his liege 
Hard on that helm, whicn many a 

heathen sword 
Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one 

blow. 
Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, 
Slew him, and all but slain himself, he 
i fell. 

So all day long the noise of battle 

roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter 

sea ; 
Until King Arthur's Table, man by 

man, 
Had fall'n in Lvonnesse about their 

lord. 
King Arthur. Then, because his 

wound was deep. 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the 

field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren 

land : 
On one side lay the ocean, and on one 
Lav a creat water, and the moon was 
' fuii. 

Then spake King Artl;ur to- Sir 
Bedivere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famot/s 

knights 
"Whereof this world holds record. Such 

a sleep 
They sleep — the men T loved. I think 
that we 
[ Shall never more, at any future time, 
i Delight our souls with talk of knightly 
I deeds, 

Walking about the gardens and tne 
I halls 

1 or Camelot, as in the days that \vere. 
I I perish by this people wjhich I madcc— 



43^ 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more ; but let what will 

be, be. 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without' help I cannot last till 

morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excali- 

bur, 
Which was my pride : for thou remem- 

berest how 
(n those old days, one summer noon, 

an arm 
Jiose up from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd 

across [king ; 

And took it, and have worn it, like a 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In after time, this also shall be known; 
But now delay not: take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly 

bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bcdi- 

vere : 
"It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee 

thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 

helm— 
A little thing may harm a wounded 

man ; 
Yet I thy best will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring 

thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he 
stept, 

And in the moon athwart the place of 
tombs. 

Where lay the mighty bones of ancient 
men, 

Old knights, and over them the sea- 
wind sang 

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 
stepping down 

By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed 
rock. 

Came on the shining levels of the lake. 



There drew he forth the brand Ex- 
calibur, 

And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 
moon, 

Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 
ran forth 

And sparkled keen with frost against 
the hilt: 

For all the haft twinkled with diamond 
sparks, 

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- 
work 

Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 

That both his eyes were dazzled as he 
stood, 

This way and that dividing the swift 
mind. 

In act to throw : but at the last it 
seem'd 

Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 

There in the many-knotted waterflags, 

That whistled stiff and dry about the 
marge. 

So strode he back slow to the wounded 
King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
" Hast thou performed my mission 

which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen .^ or what hast 

heard > " 

And answer made the bold Sir 

Bedivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the 

reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the 

crag." 

j To whom*ieplied King Arthur, faint 
and pale : 

" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and 
thy name. 

Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
\ Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
' For surer sign had follow'd, either 
I hand, 

I Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
I This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
I Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go 
I again, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



437 



As thou art lier and dear, and do the 

thing 
I bade thee, watch, and h'ghtly bring 

nic word."' 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second 

time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the 

mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the 

hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, 

he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy 

note, 
Should thus be lost forever from the 

earth, 
"Which might have pleased the eyes of 

many men. 
What good should follow this, if this 

were done } 
What harm, undone ? deep harm to 

disobey. 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king de- 
mand 
An act unprofitable, against himself.? 
The King is sick and knows not what 

he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to after time, but empty 

breath 
And rumors of a doubt .'' but were this 

kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of 

mighty kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of i 

arms, 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sv*-ord, Excali- 

bur. 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the 

Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in ihe 

deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 



To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fanv: 
were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own 

conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the 

wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 
heavily : 
" What is it thou hast seen } or what 
hast heard .? " 

And answer made liie bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 

" I heard the water lapping on the 
crag. 

And the long ripple v/ashing in the 
reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much 

in wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightlv, traitor-hearted ! Woe is 

me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what 

thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my 

knights 
In whom should meet the ofiices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the pre^ 

cious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the 

eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time prosper, get thee 

hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and. slay thee with my 

hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and 

ran. 
And, leaping down the ridges hghtly, 

jDlunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd 

the sword, 



433 



THE PASSING- OF AKTHUK. 



And strongly whcel'd and threw it. 

The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the 

moon, 
And flashing round and round, and 

whirl'd in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern 

morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter 

shock 
By night, with noises of the northern 

sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excali- 

bur : [arm 

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and brand- 

ish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the 

King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath : 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard 

or seen ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 

vcre : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 

the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never 

saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I 

die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal 

men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, 

wheeling him ; ■ 
But when I look'd again, behold an 

arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and 

brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere." 



And answer made King Arthur^ 

breathing hard : 
" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that 1 

were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive 

my weight. 
And bear mc to the margin ; yet I 

fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall 

die." 

So saying, from the pavement he 

half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his 

arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue 

eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found 

not words ; 
Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- 
guid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of 

tombs. 

But, as he v>-alk'd, King Arthur 

panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his 

bed 
When all the house is mute. So 

sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

" Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too la;e and I shall die." 
But the other swift y strode from ridge 

to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, 

as he walk'd. 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 

He heard the deep behind him, and a 

crv 
Before'. His ov.n thought drove him 

like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy 

caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and 

right 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



439 



The bare black cliff clang'd round him, j Smote by the fresh beam of the spring 
as he based 



His feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a Sudden, lo! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter 

moon. 



uig east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 

with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 

curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising 

sun 
High from the dais-throue — were 
parch'd with dust; 
Then saw they how there hove a Or, clotted into points and hanging 
duskv bar'^e I loose, 

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to ! Mix'd with the _ knightly growth that 



stern, 
Beneath them; and descending they 

were ware 
That all the decks were dense with 

stately forms, 



fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the 

King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance 

in rest, 



Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a From spur to plume a star of tourna. 
dream — by these 



Three Queens with crowns of gold : 

and from the^n rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling 

stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one 

comes. 
Or hath come, since the making of the 

world. 

Then murraur'd Arthur, " Place me 

in the barge;" 
So to the barge they came. There 

rose three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the 

King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them 

all 
And fairest. Laid his head upon her 

lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by .his name, complain- 
ing loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his 

brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his 

face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd 

moon 



ment, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 

charged 
Before the eves of ladies and of kings. 



Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere : 
" Ah ! mv Lord Arthur, whither shall 

I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and 

my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are 

dead, 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the 

the light that led 
The holy tlders with the gift of 

myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is 

dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty 

world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companion 

less. 
And the days darken round me, and 

years, 
Anxjng new men, strange faces, other 
i minds." 



440 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



And slowly answered Arthur from 
the barge : 
" The old order changcth, yielding 

place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt 

the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in 

me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I 

have done 

May He within himself make pure ! 

but thou, [again. 

If thou shouldst never see my face 

Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Where- 
fore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and 

day. 

For what are men better than sheep or 

goats [brain, 

That nourish a blind life within the 

If, knowing Go.d, they lift not hands of 

prayer 
Both for themselves and those who 

call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every 

way 
Bound bv gold chains about the feet of 
God. _ [way 

But now farewell. I am going a long 
With these thou seest — if indeed \ go 
(For all my mind is clouded with a 

doubt)— 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any 

snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it 

lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with or- 
chard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with 

summer sea. 
Where I will heal mc of my grievous 
wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar 
and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 



That, fluting a wild carol ere her 

death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 

the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the 

hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge 

of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died 

av/ay. 

At length he groan'd, and turning 

slowly clomb 
The last hard footstep of that iron 

crag ; 
Thence mark'd the black hull moving 

yet, and cried, 
" lie passes to be king among the 

dead, 
And after healing of his grievous 

wound 
He comes again ; but— if he come no 

more — 
O me, be yon dark Queens in yon 

black boat, 
Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three. 

whereat we gazed 
On that high day, when, clothed with 

living light, 
They stood before his throne in si- 
lence, friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at his 

need ? " . 



Then from the dawn it seem'd there 

came, but faint 
As from beyond the limit of the world. 
Like the last echo born of a great cry, 
Sounds, as if some fair city v/ere one 

voice 
Around a king returning from his 

wars. 

Thereat once more he moved about, 
and clomb 
E'en to the highest he could climb, 
and saw, 



NORTHERN FARMER. 



441 



Strainins; his eves beneath an arch of 


Somewhere far off, pass on and on, 


hand, 


and go 


Or thought he saw. the speck that bare 


From less to less and vanish into 


the king, 


light. 


Down that long water opening on the 


And the new sun rose bringing the 


deep 


new year. 



MISCELLANEOUS 



NORTHERN FARMER, 



NEW STYLE, 



legs, 



Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's 

they canters awaay ? 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — that's 

what I 'ears 'em saay. 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, 

thou's an ass for thy paains ; 
Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs 

nor in all thy braains. 

II. 

Woa — theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, 

Sam : yon 's parson's 'ouse — 
Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be 

eather a man or a mouse ? 
Time to think on it then ; for thou '11 

be twenty to weeak.* 
Proputty, proputty — woa then woa — 

let ma 'ear mysen speak. 
III. 
Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean a- 

talkin' o' thee ; 
Thou's been talkin' to muther, an' she 

bean a tellin' it me. 
Thou'll not marry for munny — thou'-s 

sweet upo' j^arson's lass — 
Noa — thou'll marry for luvv — an' wc 

boath on us thinks tha an ass. 



Seea'd her todaay goa by — Saaint's- 
daay — they was ringing the bells. 

She's a beauty thou thinks — an' soil is 
scoors o'gells, 



Them .as 'as munny an' all — wot 's a 
beauty ? — the flower as blaws. 

But proputty, proputty sticks, an' pro- 
putty, proputty graws. 



Do'ant be stunt : * taake time : I knaws 

what maakes tha sa mad. 
Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysen 

when I wur a lad ? 
But I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as often 

'as towd ma this : 
" Doant thou marry for munny, but goa 

wheer munny is ! " 



VI. 



thy 



An' I went wheer munny war : an' 

mother coom to 'and, 
Wi' lots o' munny laai'd by, an' a nice- 

tish bit o' land. 
Maaybe she warn't a beauty ; — I niver 

give it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' 

kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt } 

\ VII. 

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 

'a nowt when 'e 's dead, 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and 

addle t her bread : 
Why ? fur 'e 's nobbut a curate, an 

weant niver git naw 'igher ; 
An' 'e maadc the bed as 'e Tigs on afoor 

'e coom'd to the shire. 



This week. 



Obstinate. 



t Earn. 



442 



/•HE I'lCTIM. 



And thin 'e coom'd to the parish \vi' 

lots o' 'Varsity debt, 
Stook to his taail they did, an' 'e 'ant 

got shut on 'em yet. 
An' 'c ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' 

noan to lend 'im a shove, 
Woorse nor a far-welter'd* yowe : fur 

Sammv, 'e married fur luvv. 



LuYv ? What's luvv ? thou can luvv 

thy lass an' 'er munny too, 
Maakin' 'em goa togither as they've 

good right to do. 
Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 

'er munny laid by ? 
Naay — fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight 

moor fur it : reason whv. 



Ay an' thy muther says thou wants to 

marry the lass, 
Cooms of a gentleman burn; an' we 

boiith on us thinks tha an ass. 
Vvoa then, proputty, wiltha ? — an ass 

as near as mays nowt t — 
Woa then, wiltha \ dangtha! — the bees 

is as fell as owt.f 



Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'eiid, 

lad, out o' the fence ! 
Gentleman burn ! what 's gentleman 

burn : is it shillins an' pence .'' 
Proputty, proputty 's ivrything 'ere, an', 

Sammv, I'm blest 
If it is'nt the saame oop yonder, fur 

them as 'as it 's the best. 

XII. 

Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 

'ouses an' steals, 
Them as 'as coats to their backs an' 

taakes their regular meals. 

* Or fow-welter'd— said of a sheep lying on 
its back in a furrow. 
t Makes nothing. 
i The flies are as fierce as anything. 



Noii, but it's them as niver knaws 
wheer a meal 's to be 'ad. 

Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor 
in a loomp is bad. 



Them or thir feytliers, tha sees, mun 'a 

bean a laazy lot, 
P\ir work mun 'a gone to the gittin' 

whiniver munny was got. 
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leastwaays 

'is munny was 'id 
But 'e tued an' moil'd issen dead, an 'e 

died a good un, 'e did. 



Loook thou thecr wheer Wrigglesby 

beck comes out by the 'ill ! 
Feyther run up to the farm, an' I runs 

up to the mill ; 
An' I'll run up to the brig, an' that 

thou'll live to see ; 
And if thou marries a good un I'll 

leave the land to thee. 

XV. 

Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby 

I means to stick ; 
But if thou marries a bad un, I '11 leave 

the. land to Dick. — 
Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's 

what I 'ears 'im saa^v — 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter 

an' canter awaay. 



THE VICTIM. 



A TLAGUE upon the people fell, 

A famine after laid them low, 
Then thorpe and byre arose in fire, 

For on them brake the sudden foe ; 
So thick they died the people cried, 

" The Gods arc moved against the 
land." 
The Priest in horror about his altar 

To Thor and Odin lifted a hand : 



I^VAGES, 



443 



" Help us from famine 
And plague and strife ! 
What would you have of us 
Human life ? 
Were it our nearest, 
Were it our dearest, 
(Answer, O answer) 
We give you his life." 



But still the foeman spoii'd and burn'd, 

And cattle died, and deer in wood, 
A.nd bird in air, and fishes turn'd 
■ And whiten'd all the rolling flood ; 
A.nd dead men lay all over the way, _ 
Or down in a furrow scathed with 

flame : 
And ever and aye the Triesthood 

moan'd 
Till at last it seem'd that an answer 

came : 

" The King is happy 

In child and wife ; 

Take you his dearest, 

Give us a life " 



The Priest went out by heath and hill ; 

The King was hunting in the wild; 
They found the mother sitting still ; 
She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old, 
His beauty still with his years in- 
creased. 
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold, 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 
The Priest beheld him, 
And cried with joy, 
" The Gods have answer'd : 
We give tliera the boy." 



The King return'd from out the wild, 

Pie bore but little game in hand; 
The mother said : " They have taken 
the child 

To spill his blood and heal the land: 
The land is sick, the people diseased, 

And blight and famine on all the lea: 
The holy Gods, they must be appeased, 

So I pray you tell the truth to me. 



They have taken our son, 
They will have his life. 
Is he your dearest ? 
Or I the wife .^ " 



The King bent low, with hand on brow, 

He stay'd his arms upon his knee : 
" O wife, what use to answer now ? 
For now the Priest has judged for 
me" 
The King was shaken with holy fear ; 
" The Gods," he said, " would have 
chosen well ; 
.Yet both are near, and both are dear. 
And which the dearest I cannot tell 1" 
But the Priest v/as happy. 
His victim won : 
" We have his dearest, 
His only son ! " 

VI, 

The rites prepared, the victim bared, 

The knife upribing toward the blow. 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone, 

" Me, not my darling, no ! " 
He caught her away with a sudden cry: 

Suddenly from him brake his wife, 
And shrieking, "/am his dearest, I — 
/ am his dearest ! " rush'd on the 
knife. 

And the Priest was happy, 
" O Father Odin. 
We give you a life. 
Which was his nearest ? 
Who was his dearest ? 
The Gods have auswer'd ; 
We give them the wife ! " 



WAGES. 



Glory of v*\irrior, glory of orator, glory 

of song, 
Paid with a voice flying to be lost on 

an endless sea — 
Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, 

to right the wrong — 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glor\% no 

lover of glory she : 
Give her the glory of going on, and 

still to be. 



444 



LUCRETIUS. 



The wages of sin is death ; if the wages 

of Virtue be dust, 
Would she have heart to endure for 

the life of the worm and the fly ? 
She desires no isles of the blest, no 

quiet seats of the just, 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask 

in a summer sky : 
Give her the wages of going on, and 

not to die. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 

The sun, the moon, the Stars, the seas, 
the hills and the plains — 

Are not these, O Soul, the vision of 
Him who reigns .'' 

Is not the Vision He ? tho' He be not 

that which he seems ? 
Dreams are true while they last, and 

do we not live in dreams t 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of 

body and limb, 
And they not sign and symbol of thy 

division from Him .'* 

Dark is the world to thee : thyself art 

• the reason why .'' 
For is He not all but thou, that hast 
power to feel " I am I ? " 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and 

thou fulfillest thy doom, 
IVIaking Him broken gleams, and a 

stifled splendor and gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and 
Spirit with Spirit can meet — 

Closer is He than breathing, and nearer 
than hands and feet. 

God is law, say the wise ; O Soul, and 

let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder 

is yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some : no God at all, 

says the fool; 
For all we have power to see is a 

straight staff bent in a pool ; 



And the ear of man cannot hear and 
the eye of man cannot see ; 

But if we could see and hear, this 
Vision — were it not He .'' 



Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies ; — 
Hold you here, root and all, in my 
hand. 
Little flower — but if I could under- 
stand 
What you are, root and all, and all in 
all, 
I should know what God and man is. 



LUCRETIUS. 

LuciLiA, wedded to Lucretius, found 

Her master cold ; for when the morn- 
ing flush 

Of passion and the first embrace had 
died 

Between them, tho' he loved her none 
the less. 

Yet often when the women heard his 
foot 

Return from pacings in the field, and 
ran 

To greet him with a kiss, the master 
took 

Small notice, or austerely, for— his 
mind 

Half buried in some weiglitier argu- 
ment. 

Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise 

And long roll of the Hexameter — he 
past 

To turn and ponder those three hun- 
dred scrolls 

Left by the Teacher whom he held 
divine. 

She brook'd it not; but wrathful, petu- 
lant. 

Dreaming some rival, sought and found 
a witcli 

Who brew'd the philtre which had 
power, they said. 

To lead an errant passion hpme again. 



LUCRETIUS. 



445 



And this, at times, she mingled with 

his drink, 
And this destroy'd him ; for the wicked 

broth . , •, , 1 

Confused the chemic labor of the blood, 
And tickling the brute brain withui 

the man's, 
Made havoc among those tender cells, 

and check'd , , , , • 

His power to shape : he loath d hm.v 

self ; and once 
After a tempest woke upon a morn 
That mocked him with returning calm, 

and cried : 

" Storm in the night ! for thrice I 
heard the rain 

Rushing ; and once the flash of a thun- 
derbolt — 

Alethought I never saw so fierce a 
fork— . , 

Struck out the streaming mountam- 
side, and show'd 

A riotous confluence of watercourses 

Blanching and billowing in a hollow 
of it, 

Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry. 

" Storm, and what dreams, ye holy 
Gods, what dreams ! 

For thrice I waken'd after dreams. Per- 
chance 

We do but recollect the dreams that 
come 

Just ere the waking : terrible ! for it 
seem'd 

A void was made in nature; all her 
bonds 

Crack'd; and I saw the flaring atom- 
streams 

And torrents of her myriad universe. 

Ruining along the illimitable inane. 

Fly on to clash together again, and 
make 

Another and another frame of things 



I thought that all the blood by Sylla 

shed 
Came driving rainlike down again on 

earth, . 

And where it dash'd the reddening 

meadow, sprang 
No dragon warriors from Cadmean 

teeth, 
For these I thought my dream would 

show to me, 
But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art. 
Hired animalisms, vile as those that 

made 
The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies 

worse 
Than aught they fable of the quiet 

Gods. 
And hands they mixt, and yell'd and 

round me drove 
In narrowing circles till I yell'd again, 
I Half suffocated, and sprang up, and 

saw — 
Was it the first beam of my latest day ? 



"Then, then, from utter gloom stood 
out the breasts, 
The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a 

sword 
Now over and now under, now direct, 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down 
shamed 
i At all that beauty ; and as I stared, a 
fire, 
The firi: that left a roofiess Ilion, 
Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that 
I woke 

" Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus 

thine, 
Because I would not one of thine own' 

doves, 
Not ev'n a rose, were offer'd to thee ? 

thine, 
Forgetful how my rich procemion 

makes 



Another ana anotner name ui iiun^s makes 

Forever : that was mine, my dream, I \ xhy glory fly along the Italian field 
knew it ' In lavs that will outlast thy Deity ? 

Of and belonging to me, as the dog 



With inw^ard"^yelio and restless forefoot 
plies 



" Deity ? nay, thy worshippers. My 
tonsue 



plies I luiis^uc ■ . 

His function of the woodland ; but the i Trips, or I speak profanely. V/hich 
next! ' o^ these 



U6 



LUCRETIUS. 



AngeiP thee ^nost, or anqers thee at 

all? 
Not if Ihou be'st of those who, far 

aloof 
From cnv}'. hate and pity, and spite 

and scorn, 
^.ive the great life which all our 

greatest fain 
Would follow, centr'd in eternal calm. 

" Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, like 

ourselves 
Touch, and be touchVL then would I 

cry to thee 
To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender 

arms 
Round him, and keep him from the 

lust of blood 
That makes a steaming slaughter-house 

of Rome. 

" Ay, but I meant not thee ; I meant 

not her. 
Whom all the pines of Ida shook to 

see 
Slide from that qiiiet heaven of hers, 

and tempt 
The Trojnn, while his neat-herds were 

abroad ; 
Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter 

wept 
Mer Deity false in human-amorous 

tears : 
Nor whom her beardless ajDple-arbiter 
Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Cods, 
Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 
Calliope to grace his golden verse — 
Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take I 
That popular name of thine to shadow i 

forth ! 

The all-generating powers and genial i 

heat * " I 

Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the I 

thick blood 
Of cattle, and lighi is large, and lambs 1 

are glad j 

Noshig the mother's udder, and the I 

bird I 

Makes his he;. rt voice :mid the blaze 

of flowers : 
Which things app.a; the work of 

mighty Gods. 



" The Gods! and if T go my work is 

left 
Unfmish'd — if T go. The Gods, who 

haunt 
The lucid interspace of world and 

world. 
Where never creeps a cloud, or moves 

a wind, 
Nor ever falls the least white sta' of 

snow, 
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans, 
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to 

mar 
Their sacred everlasting calm! aw 

such. 
Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm, 
Not such, nor all unlike it, man mry 

gain 
Letting his own life go. TIk Gods 

the Gods ! 
If all be atoms, how then should the 

G ods 
Being atomic not be dissoluble, 
Not follow the great law.^ Mv master 

held 
That Gods there are, for all men so 

believe. 
I prcst my footsteps into his, and meant 
Surely to lead my Menmiius in a train 
Of flowery clauses onward to the proof 
1'hat Gods there are, and deathless. 

]\Ieant .'' I meant ? 
I have forgotten what I meant : my 

mind 
Stumbles, and all my faculties are 

lamed. 

" Look where another of our Gods, 
the Sun, 

Apollo, Delius, or of older use 

Ail-seeing Hyperion — what you will — 

Has mounted yonder ; since he never 
svvare, 

E.xcept his wrath were wreak'd on 
wretched man, 

That he would only shine among the 
dead 

Hereafter ; tales ! for never yet on 
earth 

Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roast- 
ing ox 



LUCRETIUS. 



447 



Moan round the spit-nov knows he ! And fleeting thro' the boundless u 



verse, 



Kin'' ofthe EasV altho' he seem, and ' And blas\ing the long quiet of my 

^frirt i breast 

With son- and tlame and fragrance, With animal heat and dire insanity? 



slowly lifts 
His golden feet on those xmpurpled 

That climb ,,to the windy halls ot 
heaven . 

And here he glances on an eye new- 
born, 

\nd gets for greeting but a wail ot 
pain ; 

And here he stays upon a freezing orb 



" ITow should the mind, except it 
loved them, clasp 

These idols to herself ? or do they fly 

Now thinner, and now thicker, like the 
flakes 

In a fall of snow, and so press in, per- 
force 

(jf multitude, as crowds that in an 
hour 



And here he stays upon a freezing orb . ^,^^ ^^ ^,^j 

That fain would gaze upon him to the ^^ ^^^^^ J 



last; 

And here upon a yellow eyelid fall n 
And closed by those who mourn a 

friend in vain, 
Not thankful that his troubles ■; no 

more. 
And me, altho' his fire is on my face 
Binding, he sees not, nor at all can 

tell 
Whether I mean this day to enci my- 
self, 
Or lend an ear to Plato where he says. 
That men like soldiers may not quit 

the post 
Allotted by the Gods : but he that 

holds 
The Gods are careless, wherefore need 

he care 
Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at 

at once, 
Being troubled, wholly out of sight, 

and sink 
Past earthquake— ay, and gout and 

stone, that break 
Body toward death, and palsy, death- 
in-life, [of all. 
And wretched age— and worst disease 
These prodigies of myriad nakedness, 
And twisted shapes of lust, unspeak- 

Abominable, strangers at my hearth 
Not welcome, harpies minng every 

<^^'sh, , . . ,, 

The phantom husks of something foully 

done, 



The keepers down, and throng, theii 

rags and they, 
The basest, far into that council-hall 
Where sit the best and stateliest of 

the land? 
"Can I not fling this horror off me 

again, 
Seeing with how great case Nature can 

smile, 
Balmier and nobler from her bath of 

storm. 
At random ravage ? and how easily 
The mountain there has cast his cloudy 

slough, 
Now towering o'er him in serenest air, 
A mountain o'er a mountain,— ay, and 

within 
All hollow as the hopes and fears of 

men. 

" But who was he, that in the garden 
snared 

Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods? a tale 

To laugh at— more to laugh at in my- 
self— 

For look! what is it^ there? yon ar- 
butus 

Totters ; a noiseless riot underneatti 

Strikes through the wood, sets all the 
tops quivering — 

The mountain quickens into Nymph 
and*Faun ; 

And here an Oread— how the sun de- 
lights 



448 



LUCRETIUS. 



To glance and shift about her slippery 
sides, 

And rosy knees and supple rounded- 
ness, 

And budded bosom-peaks — who this 
way runs 

Before the rest — A satyr, a satyr, see, 

Follows ; but him I proved impossi- 
ble ; 

Twy-naturcd is no nature : yet he 
draws 

Nearer and nearer, and I scan him 
now 

Beastlier than any phantom of his 
kind 

That ever butted his rough brother- 
brute 

For lust or lusty blood or provender : 

I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him ; and 
she 

Loathes him as well ; such a precipi- 
tate heel, 

Fledged as it were with Mercury's an- 
kle-wing, 

Whirls her to me : but will she fling 
herself. 

Shameless upon me ? Catch her, 
goatfoat : nay, 

Hide, hide them, million-myrtlcd wil- 
derness, 

And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide ! 
do I wish — 

What ?— that the bush were leafless ? 
or to whelm 

All of them in one massacre ? O ve 
Gods, 

I know you careless, yet, behold, to 
you 

From childlv wont and ancient use I 
call— 

I thought I lived securely as your- 
selves — 

No lewdness, narrowing-envy, monkey- 
spite, 

No madness of ambition, avarice, 
none : 

No larger feast than under plane or 
pine 

With neighbors laid along the' grass, to 
take 

Only such cups as left us friendly-warm, 



Affirming each his o-wn philosophy — 
Nothing to mar the sober majesties 
Of settled, sweet. Epicurean life. 
But now it seems some unseen monster 

lays 
His vast and filthy hands ujjon my 

will. 
Wrenching it backward into his : and 

spoils 
My bliss in being; and it was not 

great ; 
For save when shutting reasons up in 

rhythm. 
Or Heliconian honey in living words, 
To make a truth less harsh, I often 

grew 
Tired of so much within our little life, 
Or of so little in our little life — 
Poor little life that toddles half an 

hour 
Crown'd with a flower or two, and 

there an end— 
And since the nobler pleasure seems 

to fade, 
Why should I, beastlike as I find my- 
self. 
Not manlike end myself ? — our privi- 
lege— 
What beast has heart to do it ? And 

what man. 
What Roman would be dragg'd in 

triumph thus ? 
Not I ; not he, who bears one name 

with her, 
Whose death-blow struck the dateless 

doom of kings. 
When brooking not the Tarquin in her 

veins. 
She made her blood in sight of Colla- 

tine 
And all his peers, flushing the guiltless 

air, 
Spout from the maiden fountain in her 

heart. 
And from it sprang the Common- 
wealth, v.'hich breaks 
As I am breaking now! 

" And therefore now 
Let her, that is the womb and tomb of 
all, 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



449 



Great Nature, take, and forcing far 

apart 
Those blind beginnings that have made 

me man 
Dash them anew together at her will 
Through all her cycles — into man once 

more, 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent 

flower : 
But till this cosmic order everyw'here 
Shatter'd into one earthquake in one 

day 
Cracks all to pieces, — and that hour 

perhaps 
Is not so far when momentary man 
Shall seem no more a something to 

himself, 
But he, his hopes and hates, his homes 

and fanes, 
And even his bones long laid within 

the grave, 
The very sides of the grave itself shall 

pass, 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and 

void, 
Into the unseen forever, — till that 

hour. 
My golden work in which I told a 

truth 
That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, 
And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, 

and plucks 
The mortal soul from out immortal 

hell, [last 

Shall stand : ay, surely : then it fails at 
And perishes as I must ; for O Thou, 
Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, 
Yearn'd after by the wisest of the 

wise, 
Who fail'd to find thee, being as thou 

art 
Without one pleasure and without one 

pain, 
Howbeit I know thou surely must be 

mine 
Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus 
I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not 
How roughly men may woo thee so 

they -win — 
Thus — thus : the soul flies out and 

dies in the air." 

29 



With that he drove the knife into 

his side : 
She heard him raging, heard him fall ; 

ran in, 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon 

herself 
As having fail'd in duty to him, shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, 

fell on him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd : he answer'd, 

" Care not thou ! 
Thy duty ? What is dutv ? Fare thee 

well ! " 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER, 

[This poem is founded upon a story in Boc- 
caccio. 

A young lover, Julian, whose cousin and 
foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his 
friend and rival, Lionel, endeavors to narrate 
the story cf his own love for her, and the 
strange sequel of it. He speaks of having 
been haunted in delirium by visions and the 
sound of bells, sometimes tolling for a funeral, 
and at last ringing for a marriage : but he 
breaks away, overcome, as he approaches the 
Event, and a witness to it completes the tale.] 

* * * * * * 

He flies the event : he leaves the event 

to me : 
Poor Julian — how he rush'd awav ; the 

bells, 
Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear 

and heart — 
But cast a parting glance at me, you 

saw, 
As who should say " continue." Well, 

he had 
One golden hour — of triumph shall I 

say ? 
Solace at least — before he left his 

home. 

Would you had seen him in that 
hour of his ! 
He moved thro' aU of it majestically — 
Restrained himself quite to the close — ■ 
but now — 

Vv'hether they -ui^crc his lady's mar- 
riage-bells, 
Or prophets of them in his fantasy, 



45° 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



I never ask'cl : but Lionel and the 

girl 
Were wedded, and our Julian came 

again 
Back to his mother's house among the 

pines. 
But there, their gloom, the mountains 

and the Bay, 
The whole land wcigh'd him down as 

/Etna does 
The Giant of Mythology; he would 

Would leave the land forever, and had 

gone [yet," 

Surely, but for a whisper "Go not 
Some warning, and divinely as it 

seem'd 
By that which follow'd — but of this I 

deem 
As of the visions that he told — the 

event [life, 

Glanced back upon them in his after 
And partly made them — the' he knew 

it not. 

And thus he stay'd and would not 

look at her — 
No not for months ; but, when the 

eleventh moon 
After their marriage lit the lover's Bay, 
Heard yet once more the tolling bell, 

and said. 
Would you could toll me out of life, 

but found — 
All softly as his mother broke it to 

him — 
A crueller reason than a crazy ear, 
For that low knell tolling his lady 

dead — 
Dead — and had lain three days with- 
out a pulse : 
A-11 that look'd on her had pronounced 

her dead. 
And so they bore her (for in Julian's 

land 
They never nai! a dumb head ud in 

elm). 
Bore her free faced to the free airs of 

heaven, 
And laid her in the vault of her own 

kin. 



What did he then ? not die : he is 

here and hale — 
Not plunge headforemost from the 

mountain there, 
And leave the name of Lover's Leap : 

not he : 
He knew the meaning of the whisper 

now. 
Thought that he knew it. "This, I 

stay'd for this ; 

love, I have not seen you for so 

long. 
Now, now, will I go down into the 
grave, 

1 will be all alone, with all I love, 
And kiss her on the lips. She is his 

no more : 
The dead returns to me, and I go 

down 
To kiss the dead." 

The fancy stirr'd him so 
He rose and went, and entering the 

dim vault. 
And, making there a sudden light be- 
held 
All round about him that which all will 

be. 
The light was but a flash, and went 

again. 
Then at the far end of the vault he 

saw 
His lady with the moonlight on her 

face ; 
Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars 
Of black and bands of silver, which 

the moon 
Struck from an open grating overhead 
High in the wall, and all the rest of 

her 
Drown'd in the gloom and horror of 

the vault. 

" It was my wish," he said, " to pass, 

to sleep, 
To rest, to be with her — till the great 

day 
Peal'd on us with, that m.usic which 

rights all. 
And raised us hand in hand." And 

kneeling there 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



451 



Down in the dreadful dust that once 

was man, 
Dust, as he said, that once was loving 

heaiis, 
Hearts that had beat with such a love 

as mine — 
Not such as mine, no, nor for such as 

her— 
lie softly put his arm about her 

neck 
And kiss'd her more than once, till 

helpless death 
And silence made him bold — nay, but 

I wrong him, 
He reverenced his dear lady even in 

death ; 
But, placing his true hand upon her 

heart, 
" O, you warm heart," he moan'd, " not 

even death 
Can chill you all at once : " then start- 
ing, thought 
His dreams had come again. " Do I 

wake or sleep ? 
Or am I made immortal, or my love 
Mortal once more?" It beat — the 

heart — it beat : 
Faint — but it beat : at which his own 

began 
To pulse with such a vehemence that 

it drov/n'd 
The feebler motion underneath his 

hand. 
But when at last his doubts were satis- 
fied. 
He raised her softly from the sep- 
ulchre, 
And, wrapping her all over with the 

cloak 
He came in, and now striding fast, and 

now 
Sitting awhile to rest, but evermore 
Holding his golden burthen in his ! 

arms, j 

So bore her thro* the solitary land 
Back to the mother's house where she 

was born. ! 

i 

There the good mother's kindly min- i 

isterlng, 1 

With half a night's appliances, rccall'd 1 



Her fluttering life : she raised an eye 

that ask'd 
"Where?" till the things familiar to 

her youth 
Had made a silent ansv^^er: then she 

spoke, 
" Here ! and how came I here ? " and 

learning it 
(They told her somewhat rashly as I 

think) 
At once began to wander and to wail, 
" A.y, but you know that you must give 

me back : 
Send ! bid him come ; " but Lionel was 

awa}', 
Stung by his loss had vanish'd, none 

knew where. 
" He casts me out," she wept, " and 

goes " — a wail 
That seeming something, yet was noth- 
ing, born 
Not from believing mind, but shatter'd 

nerve. 
Yet haunting Julian, as her own re- 
proof 
At some precipitance in her burial. 
Then, when her own true spirit had 

return'd, 
"O yes, and you," she said, "and 

none but you. 
For you have given me life and love 

again. 
And none but you yourself shall tell 

him of it. 
And you shall give me back Vt'hen he 

returns." 
" Stay then a little," answer'd Julian, 

"here, 
And keep yourself, none knowmg, to 

yourself ; 
And I will do your will. I may not 

stay, ^ 
No, not an h<)ur; but send me notice 

of him [turn. 

When he returns, and then will I re- 
A.nd I will make a solemn offering oi 

you 
To iiim you love." And faintly she 

replied, 
"And I will do ycuy will, and none 

shall know." 



452 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



Not know? with such a secret to 
lie known. 

But all their h^xise was old and loved 
them both, 

And all the house had known the loves 
of both ; 

Had died almost to serve them any 
way. 

And all the land v/as waste and soli- 
tary : 

And then he rode away; but after this, 

An hour or two, Camilla's travail came 

Upon her, and that day a boy was 
born, 

Heir of his face and land, to Lionel. 

And thus our lonely lover rode 
away, 

And pausing at a hostel in a marsh, 

There fever seized upon him : myself 
was then 

Travelling that land, and meant to rest 
an hour ; 

And sitting down to such a base re- 
past, 

It makes me angry yet to speak of it 



Dwelt in his fancy : did he know her 

worth. 
Her beauty even ? should he not be 

taught, 
Ev'n bv the price that others set upon 

it,' 
The value of that jewel he had to 

guard .'' 

Suddenly came her notice and we 
past, 
I with our lover to his native Bay. 

This love is of the brain, the mind, 

the soul : 
That makes the sequel pure ; tho' 

some of us 
Beginning at the sequel know no more. 
Not such am I : and vet I sav, the 

bird 
That will not hear my call, however 

sweet, 
But if my neighbor whistle answers 

him — ■■ 
What matter ? there arc others in the 

wood. 



I heard a groaning overhead, and j Yet when I saw her (and I thought 



climiyd 



him crazed, 



The moulder'd stairs (for everythirg Tho' not with such a craziness as 



was vile) 
And in a loft, with none to wait on 

him, 
Found, as it seem'd, a skeleton alone, 
Raving of dead men's dust and beating 

hearts. 



needs 
A cell and keeper), those dark eyes of 

hers — 
Oh ! such dark eyes ! and not her eyes 

alone, 
But all from these to where she touch'd 

on earth, 
P'or such a craziness as Julian's seem'd 



A dismal hostel in a dismal land, 
A flat malarian world of reed and | No less than one divine apology 

rush ! I 

But there from fever and my care of 
^ him 



So .sweetly and so modestly sht 
came 



Sprang up a friendship that may help j To greet us, her young hero in her 

us yet, I arms ! 

For while we roam'd along the dreary "Kiss him," she said. " "^'ou gave 



coast. 



life 



And waited for her message, piece by He. but for you, had never seen it 

piece i once. 

I learnt the drearier story of his life; His other father you I Kiss him, and 
And, tho' he loved and honor'd Lionel, then 

Found that the sudden wail his lady Forgive hnn, if his name be Julian 

made too." 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER, 



453 



Talk of lost hopes and broken heart! 

his own 
Sent such a flame into his face, I 

knew 
Some sudden vivid pleasure hit him 

there. 

But he was all the more 'csolved to 

go. 
And sent at once to Lionel, praying 

him 
By that great love they both had borne 

the dead, 
To come and revel for one hour with 

hini 
Before he left the land forevermore ; 
Arid then to frienr's — they were not 

many — who lived 
Scatteringly about that lonely land of 

his, 
And bade them to a banquet of fare- 
wells. 

And Julian made a solemn feast ; I 

never 
Sat at a costlier ; for all round his hall 
From column on to column, as in a 

wood, 
Not such as here — an equatorial one, 
Great garlands swung and blossom'd ; 

and beneath, 
Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of 

Art, 
Chalice and salver, wines that, Heaven 

knows when, 
Had suck'd the fire of some forgotten 

sun, 
And kept it thro' a hundred years of 

gloom. 
Yet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups 
Where nymph and god ran ever round 

in gold — 
Others of glass as costly — some with 

gems 
Movable and resettable at will, 
And trebling all the rest m value — Ah 

heavens ! 
Why need I tell you all ?— suffice to 

'say 
That whatsoever such a house as his. 
And his was old, has in it rare or fair 



Was brought befo'-e the guest; and 

they, the guests, 
Wonder'd at some strange light in 

Julian's eyes 
(I told you that he had his golden 

hour). 
And such a feast, ill-suited as it seem'd 
To such a time, to Lionel's loss and 

his. 
And that resolved self-exile from a 

land 
He never would revisit, such a feast 
So rich, so strange, and stranger ev'n 

than rich. 
But rich as for the nuptjals of a king. 

And stranger yet. at one end of the 

hall 
Two great funereal curtains, looping 

down, 
Parted a little ere they met the floor. 
About a picture of his lady, taken 
Some years before, and falling hid the 

frame. 
And just above the parting, was a 

lamp : 
So the sweet figure folded round with 

night 
Seem'd stepping out of darkness with 

a smile. 

Well then — our solemn feast — we 

ate and drank, 
And might — the wines being of such 

nobleness — 
Have jested also, but for Julian's eyes, 
And something weird and wild about 

it all : 
What was \\.t for our lover seldom 

spoke. 
Scarce touch'd the meats ; but ever 

and anon 
A priceless goblet with a priceless 

wine 
Arising, show'd he drank beyond his 

use : 
And when the feast was near an end, 

he said ; 

"There is a custom in the Orient, 
friends — 
I read of it in Persia — when a man 



454 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



Will honor those who feast with him, 
he brings 

And shows them whatsoever he ac- 
counts 

Of all his treasures the most beautiful, 

Gold, jewels, arms, whatever it mav 
be. 

This custom — " 

Pausing here a moment, all 
Tb.e guests broke in upon him with 

meeting hands 
And cries about the banquet — " Beau- 
tiful ! 
Who could desire more beautv at a 
feast ? " * 

The lover answcr'd, " There is more 

than one 
Here sitting who desires it. Laud mc 

not 
Before my time, but hear me to the 

close. 
This custom steps yet further when 

the guest 
Is loved and honor'd to the uttermost. 
For after he has shown him gems or 

gold, 
He brings and sets before him in rich 

guise 
That which is thrice as beautiful as 

these. 
The beauty that is dearest to his 

heart — 
' O my heart's lord, would I could 

show you,' he says. 
' Ev'n my heart too.' And I propose 

to-night 
To show you what is dearest to my 

heart, ' 
And my heart too. 

" But solve me first a doubt 
I knew a man, nor many years ago ; 
He had a faithful servant, one who 

loved 
His master more than all on earth 

beside. 
He falling sick, and seeming close on 

death, 
His master would not wait until he 

died. 



But bade his menials bear him from 

the door. 
And leave him in the public way to die. 
I knew another, not so long ago. 
Who found the dying servant, took him 

home. 
And fed, and cherish'd him, and saved 

his life. 
I ask you now, should this first master 

claim 
His service, whom does it belong to ? 

him 
Who thrust him out, or him who saved 

his life } " 

This question, so flung down before 

the guests, 
And balanced either way by each, at 

length 
When some were doubtful how the law 

would hold. 
Was handed over by consent of all 
To one who had not spoken, Lionel. 

Fair speech was his, and delicate of 

phrase. 
And he beginning languidly — his loss 
Weigh'd on him yet — but warming as 

he went. 
Glanced at the point of lavr, to pass it 

by, 
Affirming that as long as either lived, 
By all the laws of love and gratefulness, 
The service of the one so saved was 

due 
All t'o the saver— -adding, with a smile. 
The first for many weeks — a semi-smile 
As at a strong conclusion — " body and 

soul 
And life and limbs, all his to work his 

will." 

Then Julian made a secret sign to 
me 

To bring Camilla dov»'n before them all." 

And crossing her own picture as she 
came, 

And looking as much lovelier as her- 
self 

Is lovelier than all others — on her 
head 

A diamond circlet and from under this 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER, 



455 



A veil, thatscem'd no more than gilded 

air, 
Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern 

gauze 
With seeds of gold— so, \Yith that grace 

of hers, 
Slow-moving as a wave against the 

wind, 
That flings a mist behind it in the sun — 
And bearing high in arms the mighty 

babe, 
The younger Julian, who himself was 

crown'd 
With roses, none.so'rosy as himself — 
An.d over all her babe and her the 

jewels 
Of many generations of his house 
Sparkled and flash'd, for he had decked 

them out 
As for a solemn sacrifice of love — 
So she came in : — I am long in telling 

it, 
I never yet beheld a thing so strange, 
Sad, sweet, and strange together — 

fioated in, — 
While all the guests in mute amaze- 
ment rose, — 
And slowly pacing to the middle hall. 
Before the board, there oaused and 

stood, her breast 
Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her 

feet. 
Not daring yet to glance at Lionel 
But him she carried, him nor lights nor 

feast 
Dazed or amazed, nor eyes of men ; 

who cared 
Only to use his own, and staring wide 
And hungering for tlie gilt and jewell'd 

world 
About him, look'd, as he is like to 

prove, 
WHien Julian goes, the lord of all he 

saw. 



" My guests," said Julian : " you 

are honor'd now 
Ev'n to the uttermost : in her behold 
Of all my treasures the m.ost beautiful, 
Qf all things upon earth the dearest to 

me." 



Then waving us a sign to seat ourselves, 
Led his dear lady to a chair of state. 
And I, by Lionel silting, saw his face 
Fire, and dead ashes and all fire again 
Thrice in a second, felt him tremble 

too, 
And" heard him muttering, "So like, so 

like: 
She never had a sister. I knew none. 
Some cousin of his and hers — O God, 

so like i " 
And then he suddenly ask'd her if she 

were. 
She shook, and cast her eyes dovv^n, and 

was dumb. 
And then some other questiou'd if she 

came 
From foreign lands, and still she did 

not speak. 
Another, if the boy were hers : but she 
To all their queries answer'd not a 

word. 
Which made the amazement more, till 

one of them 
Said, shuddering, " Her spectre ! " But 

his friend 
Replied, in half a whisper, " Not at 

least 
The spectre that will speak if spoken 

to. 
Terrible pity, if one so beautiful 
Prove, as I almost dread to find her; 

dumb \ '* 



But Julian, sitting by her, answer'd 

all : 
" Slic is but dumb, because in her you 

see 
That faithful servant whom we spoke 

about, 
Obedient to her second master now ; 
Which will not last. I have here to- 
night a guest 
So bound to me by common love and 

loss — 
What ! shall I bind him. more ? in his 

behalf. 
Shall I exceed the Persian, giving him 
That which of all things is the dearest 

to me, 



456 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



Not only showing ? and he himself pro- 
nounced 

That my rich gift is wholly mine to 
give. 

" Now all be dumb, and promise all 

of you 
Not to break in on what I say by word 
Ur whisper, while I show you all my 

heart." 
And then began the story of his love 
As heie to-day, but not so wordily — 
The passionate moment would not 

suffer that — 
Past thro' his visions to the burial; 

thence 
Down to this last strange hour in his 

own hall ; 
And then rose up, and with him all his 

guests [he, 

Once more as by enchantment ; all but 
Lionel, who fam had risen, but fell 

again, 
And sat as if in chains — to whom he 

said : 

" Take my free gift, my cousin, for 

your wife : 
And were it only for the giver's sake. 
And tho' she seems so like the one you 

lost, 
Yet cast her not away so suddenly. 
Lest there be none left here to bring 

htr back : 
I leave this land forever." Here he 

ceased. 



Then taking his dear lady by one 
hand, 

And bearing on one arm the noble 
babe, 

lie slowly brought them both to Lionel. 

And there the widower husband and 
dead wife 

Rush'd each at each with a cry, that 
rather sccm'd 

For some new death than for a life 
renew'd ; 

At this the very babe began to wail ; 

At once they turn'd, and caught and 
brought him in 

To their charm'd circle, and, half kill- 
ing him 

With kisses, round him closed and 
claspt again. 

But Lionel, when at last he freed him- 
self 

From wife and child, and lifted up a 
face 

All over glowing with the sun of life, 

And love, and boundless thanks — the 
sight of this 

So frighted our good friend, that turn- 
ing to me 

And saying, " It is over : let us go" — 

There were our horses ready at the 
doors — 

We bade them no farewell, but mount- 
ing these 

He past forever from his native land ; 

And I with him, my Julian back to 
mine. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Note.— Tlio Poems which follow include al. those T-hich hav: been omitted by the author 
from his latest levised editions, or never acknowledge -, by 'jm. They are here printed, be- 
cause, although unsanctioned by Mr. Tennyson, they havo recently been collected from various 
sources, and printed m A merica. 



TIMEUCTOO* 

" Deep in that lion-haunted inland lies 
A mystic city, goal of ^ligh emprise." 

— Chapman. 

I. STOOD upon the Mountain which 

o'erlooks 
The narrow seas, whose rapid interval 
Parts Afric from green Europe, when 

the Sun 
Had fali'n below tli* Atlantic, and 

above 
The silent heavens were blench'd with 

fairy light, 
Uncertain whether fairy light or cloud, 
Flowing Southward, and the chasms of 

deep, deep blue 
Slumber'd unfathomable, and the stars 
Were flooded over with clear glory 

and pale. 
I gazed upon the sheeny coast beyond. 
There where the Giant of old Time 

infix'd 
The limits of his prowess, pillars high 
Long time erased from earth : even as 

the Sea 
When weary of wild inroad buildeth 

up 
Huge mounds w^hereby to stay his 

yeasty waves. 
And much I mused on legends quaint 

and old 



* A Poem which obtained the Chancellor's 
Medal ^t the Cambridge Commencement, 
MDCCCXXIX. By A. Tennyson, of Trinity 
College. 



Which whilome won the hearts of all 

on earth 
Towards their brightness, ev'n as flame 

draws air ; j^man 

But had their being in the heart of 
As air is th' life of flame : and thou 

wert then 
A centred glory-circled memor)', 
j Divinest Atalantis, whom the waves 
Have buried deep, and thou of later 
I name. 

Imperial Eldorado, roof'd with gold : 
Shadows to which, despite all shocks 

of change, 
All on-set of capricious accident, 
Men clung with yearning hope which 

would not die. 
As when in some great city where the 

walls 
Shake, and the streets with ghastly 

faces thronged, 
Do utter forth a subterranean voice. 
Among the inner columns far retired 
At midnight, in the lone Acropolis, 
Before the awful genius of the place 
Kneels the pale Priestess in deep faith, 

the while 
Above her head the weak lamp dips 

and wnnks 
Unto the fearful summoning without : 
Nathless she ever clasps the marble 

knees, 
Bathes the cold hand with tears, and 

gazeth on 
Those eyes which wear no light but 

that wherewith 
Her fantasv informs them. 



458 



TIMBUCTOO. 



Where arc ye, 

Thrones of the Western wave, fair 
Islands green ? 

Where are your moonlight halls, your 
cedarn glooms, 

The blossoming abysses of your hills ? 

Your flowering capes, and your gold- 
sanded bays 

Blown roi,nKl with happy airs of odor- 
ous winds ? 

Where are the infinite ways, which, i 
seraph-trod. 

Wound through your great Elysian 
solitudes, 

Whose lowest depths were, as with 
visible love, 

Filled with Divine effulgence, circum- 
fused, 

Flowing betvreen the clear and pol- 
ished stems. 

And ever circling round their emerald 
cones 

In coronals and glories, such as gird 

The unfading foreheads of the Saints 
in Heaven ? 

For nothing visible, they say, had 
birth 

In that blest ground, but it was played 
about 

With its peculiar glory. Then I 
raised 

My voice and cried, " Wide Afric, doth 
thy Sun 

Lighten, thy hills enfold a city as fair 

As those which starred the night o' the 
elder Vv'orld ? 

Or is the rumor of thy Timbuctoo 

A dream as frail as those of ancient 
time ? " 
A curve of whitening, flashing, ebb- 
ing light ! 

A rustling of white wings ! the bright 
descent 

Of a young Seraph ! and he stood be- 
side me 

There on the ridge, and looked into 
my face 

With his unutterable, shining orbs, 

So that with hasty motion I did veil 

My vision with both hands, and saw 
before me 



Such colored spots as dance athwart 

the eyes 
Of those that gaze upon the noonday 

Sun. 
Girt with a zone of flashing gold be- 
neath 
Ilis breast, and compassed round about 

his brow 
With triple arch of everchanging 

bows. 
And circled with the glory of living 

light 
And alternation of all hues, he stood. 
" O child of man, why muse you 

here alone 
Upon the Mountain, on the dreams of 

old 
Which filled the earth with passing 

loveliness^ 
Which flung strang;e music on the 

howling winds, 
And odors rapt from remote Paradise? 
Thy sense is*clogged with dull mor- 

" tality : 
Open thine eyes and see." 

I looked, but not 
Upon his face, for it was v.'onderful 
With its exceeding brightness, and the 

light 
Of the great Angel Mind which looked 

from out 
The starry glowing of his restless eyes. 
I felt my soul grow mighty, and my 

spirit 
With superhaturarexcitation bound 
Vv'ithin me, and my mental eye grew 

large 
V/ith such a vast circumference of 

thought, 
That ill my vanity I seemed to stand 
Upon the outward verge and bound 

alone 
Of full beatitude. Each failing sense, 
As with a momentary f^ash of light, 
Grew thrillingly distinct and keen. I 

saw 
The smallest grain that dappled the 

dark earth, 
The indistinctest atom in deep air, 
The Moon's white cities, and the opal 

width 



7VMBUCT00. 



459 



Of her small giou'iug lakes, her silver 

heights 
Unvisitcd with dew of vagrant cloud, 
And the unsounded, undescended 

depth 
Of her black hollows. The clear 

galaxy 
Shorn of its hoary lustre, wonderful, 
Distinct and vivicl with sharp points of 

light, 
Blaze within blaze, an unimagined 

depth 
And harmony of planet-girded suns 
And moon-encircled planets, wheel in 

wheel. 
Arched the wan sapphire. Nay — the 

hum of men, 
Or other things talking in unknown 

tongues, 
And notes of busy life in distant 

worlds [ear. 

Beat like a far wave on my anxious 
A maze of piercing, trackless, thrill- 
ing thoughts. 
Involving and embracing each with 

each. 
Rapid as fire, inextricably linked, 
Expanding momently with every sight 
And sound which struck the palpita- 
ting sense, 
The issue of strong impulse, hurried 

through 
The riven rapt brain ; as u'hen in some 

large lake 
From pressure of descendent crags, 

which lapse 
Disjointed, crumbling from their parent 

slope 
At slender interval, the level calm 
Is ridged with restless and increasing 

spheres 
Which break upon each other, each 

th' effect 
Of separate impulse, but more fleet 

and strong 
Than its precursor, till the eye in vain 
Amid the wild unrest of swimming 

shade 
Dappled with hollow and alternate rise 
Of interpenetrated arc, v.-Quld scan 
Definite round. 



I know not I shape 
These things with accurate similitude 
From visible objects, for but dimly 

now. 
Less vivid than a half-forgotten dream, 
The memory of that mental excellence 
Comes o'er mC; and it may be I en- 

tvv'ine 
The indecision of my present mind 
With its past clearness, yet it seems to 

me 
As even then the torrent of quick 

thought 
Absorbed me from the nature of itself 
With its own fleetness. Where is he, 

that borne 
Adown the sloping of an arrowy 

stream, 
Could link his shallop to the fleeting 

edge, 
And muse midway with philosophic 

calm 
Upon the wondious laws which regu- 
late 
The fierceness of the bounding ele- 
ment .'' 
My thoughts which long had grov- 
elled in the slime 
Of this dull world, like dusky worms 

which house 
Beneath unshaken Vv-aters, but at once 
Upon some earth-awakening day of 

Spring 
Do pass from gloom to glory, and aloft 
Winnow the purple, bearing on both 

sides 
I Double display of star-lit v/ings, which 

burn 
Fan-like and fibred with intensest 

bloom; 
Even so my thoughts erewhile so low, 

now felt 
Unutterable buoyancy and strength 
To bear them upward through the 

trackless fields 
Of undefined existence far and free. 
Then first within the South me- 

thought I saw 
A wilderness of spires, and crystal pile 
Of rampart upon ramnart, dome on 

dome, 



46 o 



TIME UC TOO. 



Illimitable range of battlement 

On battlement, and the Imperial height 

Of canopy o'ercanopied. 

Behind 
In diamond lij^ht upspring the daz- 
zling peaks 
Of Pyramids, as far surpassing earth's 
As heaven than earth is fairer. Each 

aloft 
Upon his narrowed eminence bore 

globes 
Of wheeling suns, or stars, or sem- 
blances 
Of either, showering circular abyss 
Of radiance. But the glory of the 

place 
Stood out a pillared front of burnished 

gold, 
Interminably high, if gold it were 
Or metal more ethereal, and beneath 
Two doors of blinding brilliance, where 

no gaze 
Might rest, stood open, and the eye 

could scan, 
Through lengths of porch and valve 

and boundless hall. 
Part of a throne of fiery flame, where- 

from 
The snowy skirting of a garment hung, 
And glimpse of multitude of multi- 
tudes 
That min.istercd around it — if I saw 
These th'ngs disti; ctly, for my human 

brain 
Staggered beneath the vision, and thick 

night 
Came down upon my eyelids, and I fell. 
With ministering hand he raised mc 

up : 
Then with a mournful and ineffable 

smile. 
Which but to look on for a moment 

filled _ 
My eyes with irresistible sweet tears, 
In accents of majestic melody, 
Like a swoln river's gushings in still 

night ^ 

Mingled with floating music, thus he 

spake : 
" There is no mightier Spirit than I 

to sway 



The heart of maii : and teach him to 

attain 
By shadowing forth the Unattainable ; 
And step by step to scale that mighty 

stair 
WHiose landing-place is wrapt about 

with clouds 
Of glory of heaven.* With earliest 

light of Spring, 
And in the glow of sallow Summertide, 
And in red Autumn when the winds are 

_ wild 
With gambols, and when full-voiced 

Winter roofs 
The headlands with inviolate white 

snow, 
I play about his heart a thousand ways, 
Visit his eyes with visions, and his ears 
With harmonies of wind and wave and 

wood, 
— Of wincis which tells of waters, and 

of waters 
Betraying the close kisses of the wind — 
And win him unto me : and few there 

be 
So gross of heart who have not felt and 

known 
A higher than they see ; they with dim 

eyes 
Behold me darkling. Lo ! I have given 

thee 
To understand my presence, and to feel 
My fulness : I have filled thy lips with 

power. 
I have raised thee nigher to the spheres 

of heaven, 
Man's first, last home : and thou with 

ravished sense 
Listenest the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. I am the Spirit, 
The permeating life which courseth 

through 
All th' intricate and labyrinthine veins 
Of the great vine of Fable, which, out- 
spread 
W'ith growth of shadowing leaf and 

clusters rare, 
Reachethto every corner under heaven, 



i * " Be ye perfect, even as your Father iu 
.heaven is perfect," 



SOiVG. 



465 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE. 

His eyes in eclipse, 
Pa:e-cold his lips, 
The light of his hopes unfed, 
Mute his tongue. 
His bow unstrung 
With the tears he hath shed, 
Backward drooping his graceful head. 
Love is dead : 
His last arrow is sped ; 
He hath not another dart ; 
jo — carry him to his dark deathbed ; 
Bury him in the cold, cold heart — 
Love is dead. 

O truest love ! art thou forlorn, 
And unrevenged ? thy pleasant wiles 
Forgotten, and thine innocent joy? 
Shall hollow-hearted apathy. 
The cruellest form of perfect scorn. 
With languor of most hateful smiles, 
Forever write, 
In the withered light 
Of the tearless eye, 
An epitaph that all may spy ? 
No ! sooner she herself shall die. 

For her the showers sHall not fall, 
Nor the round sun shine that shineth 
to all ; 
Her lighfshall into darkness change; 
For her the green grass shall not spring. 
Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds 
sing. 
Till Love have his full revenue. 



TO 



Sainted Juliet ! dearest name ! 
If to love be life alone, 
Divinest Juliet, 
I love thee, and live ; and yet 
Love unreturned is like the fragrant 
flame 
Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice 
Offered to gods upon an altar- 
throne ; 
My heart is lighted at thine eyes, 
Changed into fire, and blown about 
with sighs. 

3<^ 



SONG. 



r THE glooming lighc 
Of middle night 
So cold and white, 
Vv'orn Sorrow sits by the moaning 
wave,p 

Beside her are laid 
Her mattock and spade, 
For she hath half delved her ov.n 
deep grave. 

Alone she is there : 
The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls 
loose : 

Her shoulders are bare ; 
Her tears are mixed vvitli the beaded 
dews. 



Death standeth by ; 
She will not die ; 
With glazed eye 
She looks at her grave : she cannot 
sleep; 

Ever alone 

She maketh her moan : 
She cannot speak : she can only weep, 

For she will not hope. 
The thick snow falls on her flake by 
flake. 

The dull wave mourns dc wn 
the slope. 
The world will not change, and her 
heart will not break. 



SONG. 



The lintwhite and the throstlecock 
Have voices sweet and clear ; 
All in the bloomed May. 
They from the blosmy brere 
Call to the fleeting year, 
If that he would them hear 

And stay. 
Alas ! that one so beautiful 
Should have so dull an ear ! 



466 



NOTHING WILL DIE. 



Fair year, fair year, thy children call, 
But thou art deaf as deatli ; 

All in the bloomed May. 
When thy light perisheth 
That from thee issueth, 
Our life evanisheth : 

C), stay ! 
Alas 1 that lips so cruel-di^Tib 
Should have so sweet a breath ! 



Fair year, with brows of royal love 
Thou comest, as a king, 

All in the bloomed May. 
Thy golden largess fling, 
And longer hear us sing ; 
Though thou art fleet of wing. 

Yet stay. 
Alas ! that eyes so full of light 
Should be so wandering I 



Thy locks are all of sunny sheen 
In rings of gold yronne,* 

All in the bloomed May. 
We pri'thee pass not on; 
If thou dost leave the sun, 
Delight is with thee gone. 

O, stay ! 
Thou art the fairest of thy feres, 
We pri'thee pass not on. 



SONG. 



Every day hath its night: 

Every night its morn : 
Thorough dark and bright 
Winged hours nre borne ; 
Ah! welaway ! 
Seasons flower and fade ; 
Golden calm and storm 
Mingle day by day. 
There is no bright form 
•Doth not cast a shade — 
Ah ! welaway ! 

* " His crisps hair in ringlis was yronne. 
Chaucer, ^Knis;htes Tale. 



When we laugh, and our mirth 

Apes the happy vein, 
We're so kin to earth, 
Pleasaunce fathers pain — 
Ah I welaway ! 
Madness laugheth loud : 
Laughter bringeth tears : 
Eyes are worn away 
Till the end of fears 
Cometh in the shroud, 
Ah ! welaway ! 



All is change, woe or weal ; 
Joy is Sorrow's brother ; 
Grief and gladness steal 
Symbols of each other: 
Ah ! welaway ! 
Larks in heaven's cope 
Sing : the culvers mourn 
All the livelong day. 
Be not all forlorn : 
Let us weep in hope — 
Ah ! welaway ! 



NOTHING WILL DIE. 

When will the streams be aweary of 
flowing 
Under my eye ? 
When will the wind be aweary of 
blowing 
Over the sky ? 
When will the clouds be aweary of 

fleeting ? 
When will the heart be aweary of beat- 
ing .? 
And nature die ? 
Never, O never ! nothing will die ; 
The stream flows. 
The wind blows, 
The cloud fleets. 
The heart beats. 
Nothing will die. 

Nothing will die ; 

All things will change 
Through eternity, 

'Tis the world's winter : 



HERO TO LEANDER. 



467 



Autumn and summer 
Are gone long ago. 
Earth is dry to the centre, 

But spring a new comer — 
A spring rich and strange, 

Shall make the winds blow 
Round and round, 

Through and through, 
Here and there, 
Till the air 
And the ground 
Shall be fill'd with life anew. 
The world was never made ; 
It will change, but it will not fade. 
So let the wind range ; 
For even and morn 
Ever will be 
Through eternity. 
Nothing was born; 
Nothing will die ; 
All things will chan2[e. 



ALL THINGS AYILL DIE. 

Cleaklv the blue river 'chimes in its 
flowing 
Under my eye ; 
Warmly and broadly the south winds 
are blowing 
Over the sky. 
One after another the white clouds are 

fleeting ; 
Every heart this May morning in 
joyance is beating 
Full' merrily; 
Yet all things must die. 
The stream will cease to flow; 
The wind will cease to blow; 
The clouds will cease to fleet ; 
The heart will cease to beat; 
For all things must die. 

All things must^die. 
Spring will come nevermore. 

O, vanity! 
Death waits at the door. 
See ! our friends are all forsaking 
The wine and merrymaking. 
We are called —we nmst go. 
Laid low, very low, 



In the dark we must lie. 
The merry glees are still ; 
The voice of the bird 
Shall no more be heard, 
Nor the wind on the hill. 
O, misery ! 
Hark! death is calling 
While I speak to ye. 
The jaw is falling, 
The red cheek paling, 
The strong limbs failing ; 
Ice with the warm blood mixing; 
The eyeballs S.xing. 
Nine times goes the passing bell 
Ve merry souls, farewell. 

The old earth 
Had a birth, 
As all men know 
Long ago. 
And the old earth must die. 

So let the warm winds range. 
And the blue wave beat the 

shore ; 
For even and morn 
Ye will never see 
Through eternity. 
All things were born. 
Ye will come nevermore, 
For all things must die. 



HERO TO LEANDER. 

O GO not yet, my love ! 

The night is dark and vast ; 
The white moon is hid in her heaven 
above. 

And the waves climb high and fast. 
O, kiss me, kiss me, once again, 

Lest thy kiss should be the last ! 
O kiss me ere we part; 
Grow closer to my heart ! 
My heart is warmer surely than the 
bosom of the main. 
O joy ! O bliss of blisses ! 

Mv heart of hearts art thou. 
Come bathe me w^.h thy kisses, 

My eyelids and my iDrow. 
Hark how th^ wild rain hisses, 

And the loud sea roars below. 



468 



THE MYSTIC. 



Thy heart beats through thy rosy 
limbs, 

So gladly doth it stir ; 
Thine eye in drops of gladness swims. 

I have bathed thee wiUi the 
pleasant myrrh ; 
Thy locks are dripping balm ; 
Thou shalt not wander hence to- 
night, 

I'll stay thee with my kisses. 
To-night the roaring brine 

Will rend thy golden tresses ; 
The ocean with the morrow light 
Wili be both blue and calm : 
And the billow will embrace thee with 
a kiss as soft as mine. 
No Western odors wander 

On the black and moaning sea, 
And when thou art dead, Leander, 

My soul must follow thee ! 
O go not yet, my love ! 

Thy voice is sweet and low ; 
The deep salt wave breaks in above 

Those marble steps below. 
The turret-stairs are wet 

That lead into the sea. 
Leander ! go not yet. 
The pleasant siars have set : 
O, go not, go not yet. 

Or I will follow thee ! 



THE MYSTIC. 

Angels have talked with -him, and 

showed him thrones : 
Ye knew him not ; he was not one of 

ye, 

Ye scorned him with an undiscerning 

scorn : 
Ye could not read the marvel in his 

eye. 
The still serene abstraction : he hath 

felt 
The vanities of after and before ; 
Albeit, his spirit and his secret heart 
The stern experiences of converse 

lives. 
The linked woes of many a fiery 

change 



Had purified, and ri--=;tened, and made 

free. 
Always there stood before him, night 

and day, 
Of wayward vary-colored circumstance 
The imperishable presences serene, 
Colossal, without form, or sense, or 

sound, 
Dim shadows but unwaning presences 
Fourfaced to four corners of the sky ; 
And yet again, three shadows, fronting 

one. 
One forward, one respectant, three but 

one ; 
And yet again, again and evermore, 
For the two first were not, but only 

seemed, D'ght, 

One shadow in the midst of a great 
One reflex from eternity on time, 
One mighty countenance of perfect 

calm. 
Awful wnth most invariable eyes. 
For him the silent congregated hours, 
Daughters of time, divinely tall, be- 
neath 
Severe and youthful brows, with shin- 
ing eyes 
Smiling a' godlike smile (the innocent 

light 
Of earliest youth pierced through and 

through with all 
Keen knowledges of low-embowed eld) 
Upheld, and ever hold aloft the cicud 
Which droops low-hung on either 22X0. 

o^life. 
Both birth and death ; he in the centr.") 

fixt. 
Saw far on each side through the 

grated gates 
Most pale and clear and lovely dis- 
tances. 
He often lying broad awake, and yet 
Remaining from the body, and apart 
In intellect and power and will, hath 

heard 
Time flowing in the middle of the 

night, 
And all things creeping to a day of 

doom. 
How could ye know him ? Ye were 

yet within 



CHORUS. 



4G9 



The narrower circle : he had weHnigh 

reached 
The last, which with a region of white 

flame, 
Pure without heat, into a larger air 
Upburning, and an ether of black blue, 
(nvesteth and ingirds all other lives. 



THE GRASSHOPPE] 



Voice of the summer wind, 

jov of the sum-^ier plain, 

Life of the summer hours, 

Carol clearlv, bound along. 

No Tithon thou as poets feign 

(Shame fall 'em, thev are deaf and 
blind), 

But an insect lithe and strong, 

Bowing the seeded summer flowers. 

Prove their falsehood and thv quar- 
rel, 
Vaulting on thine airy feet. 

Clap thy shielded sides and carol, 
Carol clearlv, chirrup .sweet. 
Thou art a mailed warrier in youth and 
strength complete 
Armed cap-a-pie 
Full fair to see ; 
Unknowing fear, 
Undreading loss, 
A gallant cavalier, 
Sails petir et sans reprock-'^ 
In sunlight and in shadow, 
The Bavard of the meadow. 



I wcjuld dwell with thee, 

Merry grasshopper. 
Thou art so glad and free. 

And as light as air; 
Thor. hast no sorrow or tears, 
Thoi. hast no compt of years, 
No withered immortalitv, 
But a shor* youth sunny and lies 
Carol clearlv, bound along. 

Soon thy joy is over, 
A sunmier of loud song, 

And slumbers in the clover. 



What hast thou to do with evil 
In thine hour of love and revel, 

In thy heat of summer pride, 
Pushing the thick roots aside 
Of the singing flowered grasses, 
That brush thee with their silken 

tresses .'' 
VvHiat hast thou to do with evil, 
Shooting, singing, ever springing 

In and out the emerald glooms, 
Ever leaping, ever singing. 

Lighting on the golden blooms .^ 



LOVE, PRIDE, AND FORGET- 
FULNESS. 

Ere yet my heart was sv^eet Love's 

tomb, 
Love labored honey busily. 
I was the hive, and Love the bee, 
My hear^ the honeycomb. 
One very dark and chilly night 
Pride came beneath and held a light. 

The cruel vapors went through all, 
Sweet Love was withered in his cell : 
Pride took Love's sweets, and by a 

spell 
Did change them into gall , 
And Memory, though fed by Pride, 
Diu wax so thin on gall, 
Awhile she scarcely lived at all. 
What marvel that she died t 



CHORUS. 

IN AN UNPUBLISHED DRAM.V, WRIT- 
TEN VERY EARLY. 

The varied earth, the moving heaven, 
The rapid waste of roving sea. 

The fountain-pregnant mountains riven 
To shapes of wildest anarchy. 

By secret fire and midnight storms 
That wander round their windy 
cones, 

The subtle life, the countless forms 



470 



LOVE AND SORROW. 



Of mail and beast are full of 

strange 
Astonishment and boundless 

change. 

The day, the diamonded night, 

The echo, feeble child of sound, 
The heavy thunder's griding might, 

The herald lightning's starry bound, 
The vocal spring of bursting bloom, 

The naked summer's glowing birth, 
The troublous autumn's sallow gloom, 
The hoarhead winter paving earth 
With sheeny white, are full of 

strange 
Astonishment and boundless 
change. 

Each sun which from the centre flings 

Grand music and redundant fire. 
The burning belts, the mighty rings, 

The murm'rous planets' rolling choir. 
The globe-filled arch that, cleaving air, 

Lost in its own effulgence sleeps, 
The lawless comets as they glare 
And thunder through the sapphire 
deeps 
In wayward strength, and full of 

strange 
Astonishment and boundless 
chancre. 



LOST HOPE. 

You cast to ground the hope which 
once was mine : 
But did the while your harsh decree 
dejilore, 
Embalming with sweet tears the vacant 
shrine, 
My heart, where Hope had been and 
was no more. 

So uii an oaken sprout 
A goodly acorn grew ; 
But winds from heaven shook the 
acorn out. 
And filled the cup with dew. 



THE TEARS OF HEAVEN. 

Heaven weeps above the earth all 

night till morn, 
In darkness weeps as all ashamed to 

weep, 
Because the earth hath made her state 

forlorn 
With self-wrought evil of unnumbered 

years, 
And doth the fruit of her dishonor 

reap. 
And all the day heaven gathers back 

her tears-, 
Into her own blue eyes so clear and 

deep, 
And showering down the glory of light- 
some day. 
Smiles on the earth's worn brow to 

win her if she may. 



LOVE AND SORROW\ 

O MAIDEN, fresher than the first green 
leaf 

With which the fearful springtide 
flecks the lea. 

Weep not, Almeida, that I said to thee 

That thou hast half my heart, for bitter 
grief 

Doth hold the other half in sovranty 

Thou art my heart's sun in love's crys- 
talline : 

Yet oil both sides at once thou canst 
not shine : 

Thine is the bright side of my heart, 
and thine 

My heart's day, but the shadow of my 
heart. 

Issue of its own substance, my heart's 
night 

Thou canst not lighten even with thy 
light, 

All-powerful in beauty as thou art. 

Ameida, if my heart were substance- 
less. 

Then might thy rays pabs through tj 
the other side. 

So swiftly, that they novvncre would 
abide. 



SONNET, 



471 



But lose themselves in utter emptiness. 
Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit 

sleep ; 
They never learned to love who never 

knew to weep. 



TO A LADY SLEEPING. 

O THOU whose fringed lids I gaze 

upon, 
Through whose dim brain the winged 

dreams are borne, 
Unroof the shrines of clearest vision, 
In honor of the silver-flecked morn ; 
Long hath the white wave of the virgin 

light 
Driven back the billow of the dreamful 

dark. 
Thou all unwittingly prolongest night. 
Though long ago listening the poise'd 

lark, 
With eyes dropt downward through 

the blue serene, 
Over heaven's parapet the angels lean. 



SONNET. 

Could I outwear my present state of 
woe 

With one brief winter, and indue i' the 
spring 

Hues of fresh youth, and mightily out- 
grow 

Than wan dark coil of faded suffer- 
ing— 

Forth in the pride of beauty issuing 

A sheeny snake, the light of vernal 
bowers, 

Moving his crest to all sweet plots of 
flowers 

And watered valleys where the young 
birds sing ; 

Could I thus hope my lost delight's 
renewing, 

I straightly would command the tears 
to creep 

From my charged lids ; but inwardly I 
weep ; 



Some vital heat as yet my heart is 

wooing : 
That to itself hath drawn the frozen 

rain 
From my cold eyes, and melted it 

again. 



SONNET. 

Though Night hath climbed her peak 

of highest i">oon, 
And bitter blasts the screaming autumn 

whirl. 
All night through archways of the 

bridged pearl, 
And portals of pure silver, walks the 

moon. 
Walk on, my soul, nor crouch to 

agony, 
Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to 

joy, 
And dross to gold with glorious al- 
chemy. 
Basing thy throne above the world's 

annoy. 
Reign thou above the storms of sorrow 

and ruth 
That roar beneath ; unshaken peace 

hath won thee ; 
So shalt thou pierce the woven glooms 

of truth ; 
So shall the blessing of the meek be 

on thee ; 
So in thine hour of dawn, the body's 

youth, 
An honorable eld shall come upon 

thee. 



SONNET. 

Shall the hag Evil die with child of 

Good, 
Or propagate again her loathed kind. 
Thronging the cells of the disease'd 

mind, 
Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered 

brood, 
Though hourly pastured on the salient 

blood } 



472 



LOVE, 



O that the wind which bloweth cold or 

heat 
Would shatter and o'erbear the brazen 

beat 
Of their broad vans, and in the solitude 
Of middle space confound them, and 

blow back 
Their wild cries down their cavern 

throats, and slake 
With points of blast-borne hail their 

heated eyne ! 
vSo their wan limbs no more might 

come between 
The moon and the moon's reflex in the 

- night, 
Nor blot with floating shades the solar 

light. 



SONNET. 



The pallid thunder-stricken sigh for 

gain, 
Down an ideal stream they ever float, 
And sailing on Pactolus in a boat, 
Drown soul and sense, while wistfully 

they strain 
Weak ej'es upon the glistening sands 

that robe 
The understream. The wise, could he 

behold 
Cathedraled caverns of thick-ribbed 

gold 
And branching silvers of the central 

globe, 
Would marvel from so beautiful a 

sight 
Plow scorn and ruin, pain and hate 

could flow : 
But Hatred in a gold cave sits below; 
Pleached with her hair, in mail of 

argent light 
Shot into gold, a snake her forehead 

clips, 
And skins the color from her trembling 

lips. 



LOVE. 



I. 



Thou, from the first, unborn, undying 

love, 
Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near, 
Before the face of God didst breathe 

and move, 
Though night and pain and ruin and 

death reign here. 
Thou f oldest, like a golden atmosphere, 
The very throne of the eternal God : 
Passing through thee the edicts of his 

fear 
Are mellowed into music, borne abroad 
By the loud winds, though the,y uprend 

the sea, 
Even from its central deeps • thine 

empery 
Is over all ; thou wilt not brook eclipsej 
Thou goest and returnest to His lips 
Like lightning : thou dost ever brood 

above 
The silence of all hearts, unutterable 

Love, 

11. 
To know thee is all wisdom, and old 

age 
Is but to know thee : dimly we behold 

thee 
Athwart the veils of evils which infold 

thee. 
We beat upon our aching hearts in 

rage; 
We cry for thee ; wi5 deem the world 

thy tomb. 
As dwellers in lone planets look upon 
The mighty disk of their majestic sun, 
Hollowed in awful chasms of wheeling 

gloom. 
Making their day dim, so we gaze on 

thee. 
Come, thou of many crowns, white- 
robed love. 
Oh ! rend the veil in twain : all men 

adore thee ; 
Heaven crieth after thee ; earth waiteth 

for thee ; 
Breathe on thy wingc'd throne, and it 

shall move 
In music and in light o'er land and sea. 



ENGLISH WAR SONG. 



473 



And now — methinks I gaze upon thee 

now, 
As on a serpent in his agonies 
Awe-stricken Indians ; what time laid 

low 
And crushing the thick fragrant reeds 

he lies, 
When the new year warm-breathed on 

the Earth, 
Waiting to light him with her purple 

skies, 
Calls to him by the fountain to uprise- 
Already with the pangs of a new birth 
Strain the hot spheres of his convulse'd 

eyes, 
^nd in his writhings awful hues begin 
To wander down his sable-sheeny sides. 
Like light on troubled waters : from 

within 
Anon he rusheth forth with merry din, 
And in him light and joy and strength 

abides ; 
And from his brows a crown of living 

light 
Looks through the thick-stemmed 

woods by day and night. 



THE KRAKEN. 

Below the thunders of the upper deep 
P'ar, far beneath in the abysmal sea, 
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded i 

sle^p, j 

The Kraken sleepeth : faintest sun- ■ 

lights flee ! 

About his shadowy sides : above him 

swell 
Huge sponges of millennial growth and 

"height ; 
And far away into the sickly light. 
From manv a wondrous grot and secret 

cell 
Unnuml^red and enormous polypi 
Winnow with giant fins the slumbering 

green. 
There hath he la-n for ages and will lie 
Battening upon huge seaworms in his 

sleep, 



Until the latter fire shall heat the deep ; 
Then once by man and angels to be 

seen. 
In roaring he shall rise and on the 

surface die. 



ENGLISH WAR SONG. 



Who fears to di 



Who fears to 



Is there any here who fears to die "i 
He shall find what he fears ; and none 
shall grieve 
For the man who fears to die ; 
But the withering scorn of the many 
shall cleave 
To the man v/ho fears to die. 

CHORUS. 

Shout for England ! 
Ho ! for England .' 
George for JEngland ! 
Merry England ! 
England for aye ! 

The hollow at heart shall crouch 

forlorn, 
He shall eat the bread of common 
scorn ; 
It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear, 
Shall be steeped in his own salt tear: 
Far better, far better he never were 
born 
Than to shame merry England here. 

Cho. — Shout for England ! etc. 

There standeth our ancient enemy ; 
Hark ! he shouteth — the ancient 
enemy ! 
On the ridge of the hill his banners 
rise ; 
They stream like fire in the skies ; 
Hold up the Lion of England on high 
Till it dazzle and blind his eyes. 

Cho. — Shout for England ! etc. 

Come along! we alone of the earth 

are free ; 
The child in o".r cradles is bolder 

than he : 



474 



IVE ARE FREE. 



For where is the heart and strength of 

slaves ? 

Oh ! where is the strength of slaves ? 

He is weak ! we are strong : he a slave, 

we are free ; 

Come along ! we will dig their graves 

Cho — Shout for England I etc. 

There standeth our ancient enemy ; 

Will he dare to battle with the free ? 
Spur along ! spur amain ! charge to the 
fight : 

Charge ! charge to the fight ! 
Hold up the Lion of England on high ! 

Shout for God and our right 1 

Cho.— Shout for Ens;land ! etc. 



NATIONAL SONG 

There is no land like England 
Where'er the light of day be ; 

There are no hearts like English 
hearts, 
Such hearts of oak as they be. 

There is no land like England 
Where'er the light of day be ; 

There are no men like Englishmen, 
So tall and bold as they be. 

CHORUS. 

For the French the Pope may shrive 'em 
For the devil a whit we heed 'em : 
As for the French, God speed 'erii 

Unto their heart's desire, 
And the merry devil drive 'em 

Through the water and the fire. 

FULL CHORUS. 

Our glory is our freedom, 
We lord it o'er the sea ; 
We are the sons of freedom, 
We are free. 

There is no land like England, 
Where'er the light of day be ; 

There are no wives like English wives, 
So fair and chaste as they be. 



There is no land like England, 
Where'er the light of day be ; 

There are no maids like English maids 
So beautiful as they be. 

Cho — For the French, etc 



DUALISMS. 

Two bees within a crystal fiowerbell 
rocked, 
Hum a lovelay to the west-wind at 
noontide 
Both alike, they buzz together, 
lioth alike, they hum together. 
Through and through the flowered 
heather. 
Where in a creeping cove the wave 
unshocked 
Lays itself calm and v;ide 
Over a stream two birds of glanc- 
ing feather 
Do woo each other, carolling 

together. 
Both alike, they glide together. 

Side by side ; 
Both alike, they sing together, 
Arching blue-glossed necks beneath 
the purple weather. 

Two children lovelier than Love adown 

the lea are singing 
As they gambol, lily-garlands ever 

stringing : 
Both inblosm white silk are frocke'd : 
Like, unlike, they roam together 
Under a summer vault of golden 

weather : 
Like, unlike, they sing together 

Side by side. 
Mid May's darling golden locked. 
Summer's tanling diamond eyed. 



WE ARE FREE. 

The winds, as at their hour of birth, 
Leaning upon the winge'd sea. 

Breathed low around the rolling earth 
With mellow preludes," We are free." 



THE SEA FAIRIES. 



475 



The streams through many alilied row 
Do'wn-carolling to the crispe'cl sea, 

Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow 
Atween the blossoms, " We are free." 



THE SEA FAIRIES.* 

Slow sailed the weary mariners, and 
saw 

Between the green brink and the run- 
ning foam 

White limbs unrobed in a crystal air, 

Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms 
prest 

To little harps of gold : and while they 
mused, 

Whispering to each other half in fear, 

Shrill music reached them on the middle 



SONG, 
Whither away, whither away, whithev 

away ? Fly no more : 
Whither away wi' the singing sail ? 
whither away wi' the oar ? 
Whither awavfrom the high green field 
and the happy blossoming shore ? 
Weary mariners, hither away, 

One and all, one and all, 
W^eary mariners, come and play ; 
We will sing to you all the day'; 
Furl the sail and the foam will fall 
From the prow ! One and all 
Furl the sail ! Drop the oar ! 
Leap ashore, 
Know danger and trouble and toil no 

more. 
Whither away wi' the sail and the oar? 
Drop the oar, 
Leap ashore, 
Fly no more ! 
Whither away wi' the sail ? whither 
away wi' the oar ? 
Day and night to the billow the foun- 
tain calls : 
Down shower the gambolling water- 
falls 
From wandering over the lea; 

* Original form. 



They freshen the silvery-crimson 

shells, 
And thick with white bells the clover- 
hill swells 
High over the full-toned sea. 
Merrily carol the revelling gales 

Over the islands free ; 
From the green seabanks the rose 
dov.-n trails 
To the happy brimmed sea. 
Come hither, come hither and be our 
lords. 
For merry brides are we ; 
We v.'ill kiss sweet kisses, and speak 
sweet words. 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall 

glisten 
With pleasure and love and revelry^ 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall 
glisten. 
When the sharp clear twang of the 
golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Ye will not find so happy a shore, 
Weary mariners ! all the world o'er ; 

O, fly no more 1 
Hearken ye, hearken ye, sorrow shall 

darken ye, 
Danger and trouble and toil no more ; 
Whither away ? 
Drop the oar ; 
Hither away 
Leap ashore ; 
O fly no more — no more : 
Whither away, whither away, whither 
away with the sail and the oar 'i 



Oi peot'Te?, 



All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams 
are true, 

All visions wild and strange : 
Man is the measure of all truth 

Unto himself. All truth is change, 
All men do walk in sleep, and all 

Have faith in that they dream : 
For all things are as they seem to all, 

And all things flow like a stream. 



476 



TO 



There is no rest, no calm, no pause, 
Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade, 

Nor essence nor eternal laws: 
P'or nothing is, but all is made. 



But if I dream that all these are, 
They are to me for that I dream ; 

For all things are as they seem to all, 
And all things flow like a stream. 

Argal — this very opinion is only true 
relatively to the flowing philosophers. 



POEMS PUBLISHED IN 
AND OMITTED IN 



THE EDITION OF 1833, 
LATER EDITIONS. 



SONNET. 

Mine be the strength of spirit fierce 
and free, "" 

Like some broad river rushing down 
alone. 

With the selfsame impulse wherewith 
he was thrown 

From his loud fount upon the echoing 
lea: — , 

Which with increasing might doth for- 
ward flee 

By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, 
and isle, 

And in the middle of the green salt 
sea 

Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a 
mile. 

Mine be the Power which ever to its 
sway 

Will win the wise at once, and by de- 
grees 

May into uncongenial spirits flow; 

Even as the great gulf stream of Flor- 
ida 

Floats far away into the Northern 
seas 

The lavish growths of southern Mex- 
ico. 



TO 



All good things have not kept aloof, 

Nor wandered into other ways ; 
I have not lacked thy mild reproof, 



Nor golden largess of thy praise, 
But life is full of weary days. 



Shake hands, my friend, across the 

brink 

Of that deep grave to which I go. 

Shake hands once more : I cannot 

sink 

So far — far down, but I shall know 

Thy voice, and answer from below. 



When, in the darkness over me, 
The four handed mole shall scrape, 

Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree, 
Nor wreathe thy cap wdth doleful 

crape, 
But pledge me in the flowing grape. 



And when the sappy field and wood 
Grow green beneath the showery 
gray, 
And rugged barks begin to bud, 

And through damp holts, new flushed 

with May, 
Ring sudden laughters of the Jay ; 



Then let wise Nature work h.er will. 
And on my clay the darnels grow. 

Come only when the days are still. 
And at my headstone whisper low, 
And tell me if the woodbines blow, 



SONNETS. 



477 



VI. 

If thou art blest, my mother's smile 
Undim.mcd, if bees are on the wing : 

Then cease, my friend, a little while, 
That I may hear the throstle sing 
His bridal'song, the boast of spring. 



I'.weet as the noise in parched plains 
Of bubb'ing wells that fret the 
stones 
(If any sense in me remains), 
Thy w^ords will be; thy cheerful 

tones 
As welcome to mv crumbling bones. 



BONAPARTE. 

He thought to quell the stubborn 

hearts of oak, 
Madman ! — to chain with chains, and 

bind with bands 
That island queen that sways the fioods 

and lands 
From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight 

woke, 
When from her wooden walls, lit by 

sure hands, 
With thunder?, and with lightnings, 

and with smoke, 
Peal after peal, the British battle 

broke, 
Lulling the brine against the Coptic 

sands. 
We taught him lowlier moods, when 

El sin ore 
Heard the war moan along the distant 

sea. 
Rocking with shattered spars, with 

sudden fires 
Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet once 

more 
We taught him : late he learned hu- 
mility 
Perforce, like those whom Gideon 

schooled with briers. 



SONNETS. 



BEAUTY, passing beauty i sweetest 

Sweet ! 
How canst thou let me waste my 
youth in sighs ? 

1 only ask to sit beside thy feet. 
Thou knowest I dare not look into 

thine eyes. 
Might I but kiss thv hand ! I dare not 
fold 
My arms about thee — scarcely dare 
to speak. 
And nothing seems to me so wild and 
bold. 
As with one kiss to touch thy blessed 
cheek. 
Methinks if I should kiss thee, no con- 
trol 
Within the thrilling brain could keep 

•afloat 
The subtle spirit. Even while I 
spoke, 
The bare word kiss hath made my 
inner soul 
To tremble like a lutestring, ere the 

note 
Hath melted in the silence that it 
broke. 



But were I loved, as I desire to be, 
What is there in the great sphere of the 

earth, 
And range of evil between death, and 

birth ; 
That I should fear,— if I were loved 

by thee ,'' 
All the inner, all the outer world of 

pain 
Clear love would pierce and cleave, if 

thou wert mine, 
As I have heard that, somewhere in 

the main, 
Fresh-water springs come up through 

bitter br!n;. 
'Tv\-ere ]o\, not fear, clasped hand-in- 
hand with thee, 
To wait for death — mute — careless of 

all ills, 



478 



rHE HESPERIDES. 



Apart upon a mountain, through the 

surge 
Of some new deluge from a thousand 

hills 
Flung leagues of roaring foam into the 

gorge 
Eelow us, 2,s far on as eve could see. 



THE HESPERIDES. 

" Hesperus and his daughters three, 
That sing about the golden tree." 

Coinus. 

The North-wind fall'n, in the new- 

starre'd night 
Zidonian Ilanno, voyaging beyond 
The hoary promontory of Soloe 
Past Thymiaterion, in calmed bays, 
Between the southern and the western 

Horn, 
Heard neither warblmg of the nightin- 
gale, 
Nor melody of the Libyan lotus flute 
Blown seaward from the shore ; but 

from a slope 
That ran bloom-bright into the Atlantic 

blue, 
Beneath a highland leaning down a 

weight 
Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedar 

shade, 
Came voices, like the voices in a 

dream, 
Continuous, till he reached the outer 

sea. 

SONG. 



The golden apple, the golden apple, 
the hallowed fruit, 

Guard it well, guard it warily, 

Singmg anily. 

Standnig about the charmed root. 

Round about all is mute. 

As the snow-field on the mountain- 
peaks. 

As the sand-field at the mountain-foot. 

Crocodiles in briny creeks --— " 



Sleep and stir not : all is mute. 
If ye sing not, if ye make false meas- 
ure, 
"We shall lose eternal pleasure, 
Worth eternal want of rest. 
Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure 
Of the wisdom of the West. 
In a corner wisdom whispers. Five 

and three / 

(Let it not be preached abroad) make 

an awful mystery. 
For the blossom unto threefold music 

bloweth ; 
Evermore it is born anew : 
And the sap to threefold music flovv- 

eth. 
From the root 
Drawn in the dark, 
Up to the fruit. 

Creeping under the fragrant bark. 
Liquid gold, honeysweet, thro' ai.d 

thro^. 
Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily, 
Looking warily 
Every way. 

Guard the apple night and day, 
Lest one from the East come and take 

it away. 

II. 

Father liesper, Father Hesper, watch, 

watch, ever and aye, 
Looking under silver hair with a silver 

eye. 
Father, twinkle not thy steadfast sight : 
Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, 

and races die ; 
Honor comes with mystery; 
Hoarded wisdom brings delight. 
Number, tell them over and number 
How many the mystic fruit-tree holds 
Lest the red-combed dragon slumber 
Rolled together in purple folds. 
Look to him, father, lest he wmk, and 

the golden apple be stol'n away, 
For his ancient heart is drunk with 

overwatchings night and day. 
Round about the hallowed fruit-tree 

curled — 
Sing away, sing aloud evermore in the 

wind, ^YithQVlt stop, ^ , 



ROSALIND. 



479 



Lest his scaled eyelid drop 

For he is older than the Avorld. 

If he waken, we waken, 

Rapidly levelling eager eyes. 

If he sleep, we sleep, 

Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. 

If the golden apple be taken, 

The world will be overwise. 

Five links, a golden chain, are we, 

Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 

Bound about the golden tree. 



Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, 

watch, night and day, 
Lest the old wound of the world be 

healed, 
The glory unsealed. 
The golen apple stolen away, ^ 
And the ancient secret revealed 
Look from west to east along : 
Father, old Himala weakens, Caucasus 

is bold and strong. 
Wandering waters unto wandering 

waters call ; 
Let them clash together, foam and 

fall. 
Out of watchings, out of wiles, 
Comes the bliss of secret smiles. 
All things are not told to all. 
Half-round the mantling night is 

drawn, 
Purple fringed w'ith even and dawn, 
Hesper hatetli Phosphor, evening 

hateth morn. 



IV. 



Every flower and every fruit the redo- 
lent breath 
Of this warm sea-wind ripeneth, 
Arching the billow m his sleep: 
But the land-wind wandereth, 
Broken by the highland-steep, 
Two streams upon the violet deep; 
For the western sun and the western 

star, 
And the low west-wind, breathing afar, 
The end of day and beginning of night 
Make the apple hely and bright ; 



Holy and bright, round and full, bright 
and blest, 

jSIellowed in a land of rest ; 

Watch it warily day and night ; 

All good things are in the west. 

Till mid noon the cool east light 

Is shut out by the tall hillbrow ; 

But when the full-faced sunset yellowly 

Stays on the flowering arch of the 
bough. 

The luscious fruitage clustereth mel- 
lowly, 

Golden-kernelled, golden-cored. 

Sunset-ripened above on the tree. 

The world is w^asted with fire and 
sword, 

But the apple of gold hangs over the 
sea. 

Five links, a golden chain are we, 

Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three. 

Daughters three, 

Bound about 

The gnarled bole of the charmed tree. 

The golden apple, the golden apple, 
the hallowed fruit, 

Guard it well, guard it warily, 

Watch it warily, 

Singing arily. 

Standing about the charmed root. 



ROSALIND. 
I. 

My Rosalind, my Rosalind, • 
My frolic falcon with bright eyes, 
Whose free delight, from any height of 

rapid flight, 
Stoops at all games that wing the skies, 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, 

whither. 
Careless both of wind and weather. 
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, 
Up or down the streaming wind? 



The quick lark's closest-carolled 

strams, 
The shadow rushing up the sea, 
The lightning flash atween the rains, 



48o 



KA TE. 



The sunlight driving down the lea, 
The leaping stream, the very wind. 
That will not sta}', upon his wa}', 
To stoop the cowslip to the plains, 
Is not so clear and bold and free 
As you, my falcon Rosalind. 
You care not for another's pains, 
Ikcause you arc the soul of joy, 
Bright metal all without alloy. 
Life shoots and glances thro' your 

veins. 
And flashes off a thousand ways 
Through lips and eyes in subtle rays. 
Your hawkeyes are' keen and bright, 
Keen with triumph, watching still 
To pierce me through with pointed 

light; 
But oftentimes they flash and glitter 
Like sunshine on a dancing rill. 
And your words are seeming-bitter, 
Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter 
From excess of swift delight. 



Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind : 
Too long you keep the upper skies ; 
Too long you roam and wheel at will : 
But we must hood your random eyes; 
That care not whom they kill, 
And your cheek, whose brilliant hue 
Is so sparkling-fresh to view. 
Some red heath-flower in the dew, 
Touched with sunrise. We must bind 
And keep you fast, my Rosalind, 
Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, 
And clip your wings, and make you 

love : 
When we have lured you from above. 
And that delight of frolic flight, by day 

or night. 
From north to south ; 
Will bind you fast in silken cords, 
And kiss away the bitter words 
From off your rosy mouth.* 

* Author's Note. — Perhaps the follow- 
ing lines may be allowed to stand as a sepa- 
rate poem , originally they made part of the 
text, where they were manifestly superfluous. 
Mv Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind, 



SONG. 

Who can sav 

Why To-day 

To-morrow will be yesterday? 

Who can tell 

Why to smell 

The violet recalls the dewy prime 

Of youth and buried time t 

The cause is nowhere found in rhyme 



KATE. 



I KNOW her by her angry air, 
Her bright black eyes, he'r bright black 
hair. 
Her rapid laughters wild and shrill, 
As laughters of the woodpecker 
From the bosom of a hill. 
'Tis Kate — she sayeth what she 
will: 
For Kate hath an unbridled tongue, 
Clear as the twanging of a harp. 
Her heart is like a throbbing star. 

Is one of those who know no strife 
Of inward woe or outward fear ; 
To whom the slope and stream of Life, 
The life before, the life behind. 
In the ear, from far and near, 
Chimeth musically clear. 
My falcon-hearted Rosalind, 
Full-sailed before a vigorous wind. 
Is one of those who cannot weep 
For others' woes, but overleap 
All the petty shocks and fears 
That trouble life in earlv years, 
With a flash of frolic scorn 
And keen delight, that never falls 
Away from freshness, self-upborne 
With such gladness as, whenever 
The fresh-flushing springtime calls 
To the flooding waters cool. 
Young fishes, on an April morn, 
Up and down a rapid river. 
Leap the little waterfalls- 
That smg into the pebbled pool. 
My happy falcon, Rosahnd, 
Hath daring fancies of her own, 
Fresh as the dawn before the daj'. 
Fresh as the early sea-smell blown 
Througii vineyards from an inland bay. 
My Rosa!ind,'my Rosalind, 
Because no shadow on you falls, 
Think you hearts are tennis balls 
To play with, wanton Rosalind? 



SONNET. 



4«i 



Kate hath a spirit ever strung 

Like a new bow, and bright and 
sharp 
As edges of the cimeter. 
Whence shall she take a fitting 
mate ? 
For Kate no common love will 
feel ; 
My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, 
As pure and true as blades of 
steel. 



Kate saith " the world is void of 
might." 
Kate saith " the nien are gilded flies." 
Kate snaps her fingers at my 
vows ; 
Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. 
I would I were an armed knight, 
Far famed for well-won enterprise, 

And wearing on my swarthy brows 
The garland of new-wreathed em- 
prise : 
For in a nioment I would pierce 
The blackest files of clanging fight. 
And strongly strike to left and right, 
In dreaming of my lady's eyes. 
Oh ! Kate loves well the bold and 
fierce ; 
But none are bold enough for Kate, 
She cannot find a fitting mate. 



SONNET 

WRITTEN ON HEARING OF THE OUT- 
BREAK OF THE POLISH INSURREC- 
TION. 

Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar 
The hosts to battle : be not bought and 

sold. 
Arise, braves Poles, the boldest of the 

bold; 
Break through your iron shackles — 

fling them far. 
O for those days of Fiast, ere the Czar 
Grew to his strength among his deserts 

cold ; 
When even to Moscow's cupolas were 

rolled 

31 



The growing murmurs of the Polish 
war ! 

Now must your noble anger blaze out 
more 

Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan, 

The Moslem myriads fell, and fled be- 
fore — 

Than when Zamoysky smote the Tar- 
tar Khan ; 

Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore 

Boleslas drove the Pomeranian. 



SONNET 

on THE RESULT OF THE LATE RUSSIAN 
INVASION QF POLAND. 

How long, O God, shall men be ridden 
down, 

And 'trampled under by the last and 
least 

Of men ? The heart of Poland hath not 
ceased 

To quiver, though her sacred blood 
doth drown 

The fields ; and out of every moulder- 
ing town 

Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in- 
creased. 

Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the 
East 

Transgress his ample bound to some 
new crown : — 

Cries to Thee, " Lord, how long shall 
these things be ? 

How long shall the icy-hearted Musco- 
vite 

Oppress the region ?" Us, O Just and 
Good, 

Forgive, who smiled when she was 
torn in three ; 

Us, who stand Jiozo, when we should aid 
the right — 

A matter to be weiit with tears of blood ! 



SONNET. 

As when with downcast eyes v/e muse 

and brood. 
And ebb into a former life, or seem 



482 



ANACREONTICS. 



To lapse far back in a confused dream 

To states of mystical similitude ; 

If one but speaks or hems or stirs his 

chair, 
Ever the wonder waxeth more and 

more, 
So that we say, " All this hath been be- 
fore, ■ 
All this hath been, I know not when or 

where." . 
So, friend, when first I looked upon 

your face, 
Our thought gave answer, each to each, 

so true, 
Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — 
Altho' I knew not in what time or place, 
Methought that 1 had often met with 

you, 
And each had lived in the other's mind 

and spee«h. 



O DARLING ROOM. 
I. 

O DARLING room, my heart's delight. 
Dear room, the apple of my sight, 
With thy two couches soft and white. 
There is no room so exquisite, 
No little room so warm and bright, 
Wherein to read wherein to write. 



ir. 



For I the Nonnenwerth have seen, 
And Oberwinter's vineyards green. 
Musical Lurlei ; and between 
The hills to Bingen have I been, 
Bingen in Darmstadt, where the Rhene 
Curves toward Mcntz, a woody scene. 



Yet never did there meet my sight, 

In any town to left or right, 

A little room so exquisite, 

With two such couches soft and white ; 

Not any room so warm and bright, 

Wherein to read, wherein to write. 



TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH. 

You did late review my lays. 

Crusty Christopher; 
You did mingle blame and praise, 

Rusty Christopher. 
When i learnt from whom it came, 
I forgave you all the blame, 

Musty Christopher; 
I could not forgive the praise 

Fusty Christopher, 



FUGITIVE POEMS, 



NO MORE.* 

SAD A'o More ! O sweet A'o More 
O strange No More ! 

By a mossed brookbank on a stone 

1 smelt a wildweed flower alone ; 1 
There v.'as a ringing in my ears, ' 
And both my eyes gushed out with I 

tears. j 

Surely all pleasant things had gone be- j 

fore, 
Low-buried fathom deep beneath with I 

thee, 
No More ! I 

* From the Gem, a literary annual, for 1831. I 



ANACREONTICS.*- 

With roses musky-bieathed. 
And drooping daffodilly, 
And silver-leaved lily, 
And ivy darkly-wreathed, 
I wove a crown before her, 
For her I love so dearly, 
A garland for Lenora. 
With a silken cord I bound it. 
Lenora, laughing clearly 
A light and thrifling laughter. 
About her forehead wound 
And loved me ever after. 



SOiViVET. 



4«3 



A FRAGMENT * 

Where is the Giant of the Sun, which 

stood 
In the midnoon the glory of old Rhodes, 
A perfect Idol with profuigent brows 
Far-sheening down the purple seas to 

those 
Who sailed from Mizraim underneath 

the star 
Named of the Dragon — and between 

whose limbs 
Of brassy vastness broad-blown Ar- 
gosies 
Drave into haven'' Yet endure un- 
scathed 
Of changeful cycles the great Pyramids 
Broad-based amid the fleeting sands, 

and sloped 
Into the slumberous summer-noon ; but 

where, 
Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks 
Graven with gorgeous emblems undis- 

cerned ? 
Thv placid Sphinxes brooding o'er the 

' Nile? 
Thy shadowing Idols in the solitudes. 
Awful Memnonian countenances calm 
Looking athwart the burning flats, far 

off 
Seen by the high-necked camel on the 

verge 
Journeying southw-ard ? Where are thy 

monuments 
Piled by the strong and sunborn Ana- 

kim 
Over their crowned brethren On and 

Oph? 
Thy Memnon when his peaceful lips 
r are kist 

: With earliest ravs,. that from his 

mother's eyes 
Flow over the Arabian bay, no more 
Breathes low into the charmed ears of 

morn 
Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile 
By columned Thebes. Old Memphis 
I ' hath gone down : 
( The Pharoahs are no more: somewhere 
t in death 



* From tiie Gem, a Iherarj- ar.!iu.-.i, for 1861. 



They sleep with staring eyes and gilded 

lips, 
Arappecl round with spiced cerements 

in old grots 
Rock-hewn and sealed forever. 



SONNET.t 

Me my own fate to lasting sorrow 
doometh : 
Thy woes are birds of passage, tran- 
sitory : 
Thy spirit, circled with a living glory, 
In sumn\er still a summer joy resumeth 
Alone my hopeless melancholy gloom- 
eth. 
Like a lone cypress, through the twi- 
light hoarv, 
From an old garden where no flower 
bloometh, 
One cvpress on an island promontory. 
But yet my lonely spirit follows thine. 
As round the rolling earth night rol- 
lows day : 
But yet thy lights on my horizon shine 
Into my night, when thou art far 
away. 
I am so dark, alas I and thou so bright 
When we two meet there's never per- 
fect lis;ht. 



SONNET.t 

Check every outflash, every ruder sally 
Of thought and speech ; speak low 
and give up wholly 
Thy spirit to mild-minded melancholy; 
This is the place. Through yonder 
poplar valley 
Below the blue-green river windeth 
slowly ; 
But in the middle of the sombre valley 
The crisped waters whisper musically, 
And all the haunted place is dark and 
holv. 
The nightingale, with long and lov^ 
preamble, 

t Friendship's Offering, 1S33. 



484 



STANZAS. 



Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn 
larches, 

And in and out the woodbine's flow- 
ery arches 
The summer midges wove their wanton 
gambol, 

And all the white-stemmed pincwood 
slept above — 

When in this valley first I told my 
love. 



THE SKIPPING-ROPE* 

Sure never yet was Antelope 

Could skip so lightly by. 
Stand off, or else my skipping-rope 

Will hit you in the eye. 
How lightly whirls the skipping-rope! 

How fairy-like you fly ! 
Go, get you gone, you muse and 
mope — 

I hate that silly sigh. 
Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope, 

CJr tell me how to die. 
There, take it, take my skipping- 
rope. 

And hang yourself thereby. 



THE NEW TIMON AND THE 
POETS.t 

We know him, out of Shakespeare's 
art. 
And those fine curses which he 
spoke ; 
The old Timon, with his noble heart, 
That, strongly loathing, greatly broke. 

So died the Old ; here comes the New. 

Regard him ; a familiar face : 
I ihought we knew him: What, it's you 

The padded man — that wears the 
stays — 

Who killed the girls and thrilled the 
boys 
With dandy pathos when you wrote ! 

* Omitted from the edition of 1S42. 
t Publislied in Punch, Felsruary, 1846, sign- 
e«l " Alcibiades." 



A Ivion, you, that made a noise. 
And shook a mane en papillotes. 

And once you tried the Muses too ; 

You failed, Sir ; therefore now you 
turn. 
To fall on those who are to you 

As Captain is to Subaltern. 

But men of long-enduring hopes. 
And careless what this hour may 
bring, 
Can parclon little would-be Popes 
And Brummels, when they try to 
sting. 

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, 
And waive a little of his claim ; 

To have the deep poetic heart 
Is more than all poetic fame. 

But you. Sir, you are hard to please ; 

You never look but half content ; 
Nor like a gentleman at ease, 

With moral breadth of temperament. 

And what with spites and what with 
fears. 

You cannot let a body be : 
It's always ringing in your ears, 

" They call this man as good as ;;;^." 

W^hat profits now to understand 
The merits of a spotless shirt — 

A dapper boot — a little hand — 
If half the little soul is dirt.-* 

Yo7i talk of tinsel ! why we see 
The old mark of rouge upon your 
cheeks. 

You prate of Nature ! you are he 
That snilt his life about the cliques. 

A Timon you ! Nay, nay, tor shame : 
It looks too arrogant a jest — 

The fierce old man — to take his mame, 
You bandbox. Off, and let him rest. 



STANZAS* 

^VHAT time I wasted 3'outhful hours. 
One of the shining winged powers, 
Show'd me vast cliffs with crown of 
towers. 

•The Keepsake, 1851. 



BRITONS GUARD YOUR OIV-^. 



4^5 



As towards. the gracious light I bow'd, 
They seem'd high palaces and proud, 
Hid'now and then with sliding cloud. 

He said, " The labor is not small ; 
Yet winds the pathway free to all : — 
Take care thou dost not fear to fall ! " 



SONNET 

TO WILLIAM CHARLES MACREADY* 

Farewell, Macready, since to-night 
.we part. 
Full-handed thunders often have 

confest 
Thy power, well-used to move the 
public breast. 
We thank thee with one voice, and 

from the heart. 
Farewell, IMacready; since this night 
we part. 
Go, take thine honors home: rank 

with the best, 
Garrick, and statelier Kemble, and 
the rest 
Who made a nation purer thro' their 

art. 
Thine is it, that our Drama did not 
die, 
Nor flicker down to brainless pan- 
tomime. 
And those gilt gauds men-children 
swarm to see. 
Farewell, Macready; moral, grave, 

sublime. 
Uur Shakespeare's bland and universal 
eye 
Dwells pleased, thro' twice a hundred 
years, on thee. 



BPaTONS, GUARD YOUR OWN.t 

Rise, Britons, rise, if manhood be not 
dead ; 

The world's last tempest darkens over- 
head ; 

*Read by IMr. John Forster at a dinner 
given to Mr^ ]Macread3', Siarch i, 1851, on his 
retirement from the stage. 

t Tlie Examiner, 1852. 



The Pope has bless'd him ; 
The Church caress'd him ; 
lie triumphs; maybe we shall stand 
alone. 

Britons, guard your own. 

His ruthless host is bought with plun- 

der'd gold. 
By lying priests the peasants' votes 
controird. 

All freedom vanish'd, 
The true men banish'd. 
He triumphs : maybe we shall stand 
alone. 

Britons, guard your own. 

Peace-lovers we — sweet Peace we all 

desire — 
Peace-lovers we — but who can trust a 
liar ?— 

Peace-lovers, haters 
Of shameless traitors. 
We hate not France, but this man's 
heart of stone, 

Britons, guard your own. 
We hate not France, but France has 

lost her voice. 
This man is France, the man they call 
her choice. 

By tricks and .spying, 
By craft and lying, 
And murder was her freedom over- 
thrown. 

Britons, guard your own. 

" Vive I'Empereur " may follow by and 
by : [cry. 

"God save the Queen" is here a truer 
God save the Nation, 
The toleration, 
And the free speech that makes a 
Briton known. 

Britons, guard your own. 

Rome's dearest daughter now is cap- 
tive France, 
The Jesuit laughs, and reckoning on 
his chance, 

Vv''ould unrelenting, 
Kill all dissenting, 
Till v,-e were left to fight for truth 

Britons, euard vour own. 



4«6 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY. 



Call home your ships across Biscayan 

tides, 
To blow the battle from their oaken 
sides. 

Why waste they y^ n ler 
Their idle thunder ? 
Why stay they there to guard a foreign 
throne ? 

Seamen, guard your own. 

We were the best of marksmen long 

ago, 
We won old battles with our strength, 
the bow. 

Now practise, yeomen, 
Like those bowmen, 
Till your balls fly as their shafts have 
flown. 

Yeomen, guard your own. 

His soldier-ridden Highness might in- 
cline 
To take Sardinia, Belgium, or the 
Rhine : 

Shall we stand idle, 
Nor seek to bridle 
His rude aggressions, till we stand 
alone .-' 

Make their cause your own. 

Should he land here, and for one hour 

prevail, 
There must no man go back to bear 
the tale : 

No man to bear it — 
Swear it ! we swear it I 
Although v»'e fight the banded world 
alone, 

W'. sv/ear to guard our own. 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 

1852.-* 

My lords, we heard you speak; you 

told us all 
That England's honest censure went 

too far ; 
That our free press should cease to 

brawl, 

*The Examiner, 1852, and signed "Merlin." 



Not sting the fiery Frenchman into 

war. 
It was an ancient privilege, my lords. 
To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, 

into words. 

We love not this French God, this 
child of Hell, 
Wild War, who breaks the converse 
of the wise ; 

But though we love kind Peace so 
well, 
We dare not, e'en by silence, sanc- 
tion lies. !dra-w ; 

It might safe be our censures to with- 

And yet, my lords, not well ; there is 
a higher law. 

As long as we remain, we must speak 

free, 
Though all the storm of Europe on 

us break ; 
No little German state are we. 

But the one voice in Europe ; we 

vmst speak ; 
That if to-night our greatness were 

struck dead. 
There might remain some record of 

the things we said. 

If vou be fearful, then must we be 
'bold. 

Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant 
o'er. 
Better the waste Atlantic roll'd 

On her and us and ours for ever^ 
more. 
What ! have we fought for freedom 

from our prime, 
At last to dodge &nd palter with a 
public crime .'' 

Shall we fear him ? our own wq never 

feared. 
From our first Charles by Tc'-ce we 

wrung our claims, 
Prick'd by the Papal spiir, we rear'd. 
And flung the burden of the second 

Jam.es. 
I say we never fear'd ! and as for 

these, 
We broke them on the land, we drove 

them on the seas. 



BANDS ALL ROUND. 



487 



And you, my lords, you make the 

people muse, 
In doubt if you be of our Barons' 

breed — 
Were those your sires \Yho fought at 

Lewes ? 
Is this the manly strain of Runny- 

mede ? 
O fall'n nobility, that, overawed, 
Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this 

monstrous fraud. 

We feel, at least, that silence here were 

sin. 
Not ours the fault if we have feeble 

hosts — 
If easy patrons of their kin j 

Have left the last free race with | 

naked coasts ! j 

They knev,- the precious things they | 

had to guard : j 

For us, we will not spare the tyrant [ 

one hard word. ' 

! 

Though niggard throats of Manchester | 

may bawl, 
What England was, shall her true ; 

sons forget } j 

We are not cotton-spinners all, j 

But some love England, and her t 

honor yet. i 

And these in our Thermopylae shall \ 

stand, ! 

And hold against the world the honor ■ 

of the land. ' 



HANDS ALL ROUND.* 
First drink a health, this solemn 



K health to England, every guest ; , 
That man's the best cosmopolite 

Who loves his native country best, j 
May freedom's oak for ever live ! 

With stronger life from day to day ; 
That man's the best Conservative . j 

Who lops the mouldered branch 1 
away. ! 

*The Examiner, 1S52, and signed "Merlin." ' 



Hands all round ! 
(Jod the tyrant's hope confound! 
To this great cause of freedom drink, 
my friends. 
And the great name of England, 
round and round. 

A health to Europe's honest men! 
Heaven guard them from her tyrants' 
jails ! 
From wronged Poerio's noisome den, 
From iron limbs and tortured nails 
We curse the crimes of southern kings. 
The Russian whips and Austrian 
rods — 
We likewise have our evil things ; 
Too much we make our Ledgers, 
Gods. 

Yet hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To Europe's better health we drink, 
my friends. 
And the great nam.e of England, 
round and round ! . 

What health to France, if France be 
she, 
W'hom martial progress only 
charms ? 
Vet tell her — better to be free 

Than vanquish all the world in 
arms. 
Her frantic city's flashing heats 

But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. 
Why change the titles of your streets ? 
Yt)u fools, you'll want them all again. 
Hands all round ! r 

God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To France, the wiser France, we drink, 
my friends, 
And the great name of England, 
round and round. 

Gigantic daughter of the West, 

\Ve drink to thee across the flood. 
We know thee and we love thee best, 

For art thou not of British blood 'i 
Should war's mad blast again be blown, 

Permit not thou the tyrant powers 
To fight thy mother here alone, 

But let thv broadsides roar with ours, 



r86s-i866. 



Hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To our dear kinsmen of the West, 
my friends, 
And the great name of England, 
round and round. 

O rise, our strong Atlantic sons, 

When war against our freedom 
springs ! 
O speak to Europe through your guns ! 

They can be understood by kings. 
You must not mix our Queen with 
those 
That wish to keep their people fools ; 
Our freedom's foemen are her foes, 
She comprehends the race she rules, 

Hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To our dear kinsman in the West, my 
friends, 
And the great name of England, 
round and round. 



THE WAR.* 

There is a sound of thunder afar, 
Storm in the South that darkens the 
day. 
Storm of battle and thunder of war, 
Well, if it do not roll our way. 
Form ! form ! Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemeii, riflemen fcvm ! 

Be not deaf to the sound that warns ! 

Be not gull'd by a despot's plea ! 

Are figs of thisUes, or grapes of thorns ? 

How should a despot set men free ? 

Form ! form ! Riflemen form ! 

Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 

Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! 

Let your Reforms for a moment go, 
Lock to your butts and take good 
aims. 
Better a rotten borough or so, 

Than a rotten fleet or a city of flames ! 
Form ! form ! Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form ! 

* London Times, May, 9 1859. 



Form, be ready to do or die ! 

Form in Freedom's name and the 
Queen's ! 
True, that we have a faithful all)% 
But only the Devil knows what he 
means 
Form ! form ! Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form ! 
T. 



ON A SPITEFUL LETTER* 

Here, it is here — The close of the year, 
And with it a spiteful letter. 

My fame in song has done hrni much 
wrong. 
For himself has done much better. 

foolish bard, is your lot so hard, 
If men neglect your pages .'' 

1 think not much of yours or of mine ; 
I hear the roll of the ages. 

This fallen leaf, isn't fame as brief t 
My rhymes may have been the 
* stronger. 

Yet hate me not, but abide your lot ; 
I last but a moment longer. 

O faded leaf, isn't fame as brief "i 
What room is here for a hater "i 

Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener 
leaf,' 
For it hangs one moment later. 

Greater than I— isn't that your cry ? 
And I shall live to see it. 
Well, if it be so, so it is, you know ; 
And if it be so — so be it ! 

O summer leaf, isn't life as brief ? 

But this is the time of hollies. 
And my heart, my heart is an evergreen; 

I hate the spites and the follies. 



1S65-1866.I 

I 'stood on a tower in the wet. 
And New Year and Old Year met, 

* Once a Week, January 4, 1868. 
t Good Words, March, 1868. 



ON THE HILL. 



489 



And winds were roaring and blowing ; 
And I said, " O years that meet in tears, 
Have ye aught that is worth the know- 
ing ? 
Science enough and exploring, 
Wanderers coming and going 



Matter enough for deploring, 
But aught that is worth the knowing ?' 
Seas at my feet were flowing, 
Waves on the shingle pouring, 
Old Year roaring and lolowing. 
And New Year blowing and roaring. 



THE WINDOW 



OR, 



THE SONGS OF THE WRENS, 



WORDS WRITTEN FOR MUSIC. 
THE MUSIC BY ARTHUR SULLIVAN. 

Four years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for 
him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as 
" Orpheus with his Lute," and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet whose almost 
©nly merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr- Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my four- 
year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days ; but the music is 
now completed, and I am bound by my promise. 

A. TE^I^:vsoN. 

Deceiiiber, 1870. ^ 



ON THE HILL. 

The lights and shadows fly ! 
k^onder it brightens and darkens down 
on the plain. 
A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's 
eye ! 
O is it the brook, or a pool ; or her 
window pane. 
When the winds are up in the morn- 
ing >. 

Clouds that are racing above, 
And winds and lights and shadows that 

cannot be still, 
All running on one way to the home 

of my love 



You are all running on, and I stand on 
the slope of the hill, 
And the winds are up in the morn- 
ning ! 

Follow, follow the chase ! 
And my thoughts are as quick and as 
quick, ever on, on, on. 
O lights, are you flying over her 
sweet little face ? 
And my heart is there before vou are 
come and gone, 
When the winds are up in the 
morning ! 

Follow them down the slope ! 
And I follow them down to the window- 
pane of ray dear. 
And it brightens and darkens and 
and brightens like my hope. 



490 



THE LETTER. 



AikI it darkens and brightens and dar- 
kens like my fear, 
And the winds arc up in the morn- 
inir. 



II. 

AT THE WINDOW. 

Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Clasp her window, trail and twine ! 
Rose, rose and clematis, 
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss 
Kiss, kiss ; and make her a bower 
All of flowers, and drop me a flower, 
Drop me a flower. 

Vine, vine and eglantine; 
Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine ,'' 
Rose, rose and clematis, 
Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss, 
Kiss, kiss — And out of her bower 
All of flowers, a flower, a flower, 
Dropt, a flower. 



GONE! 

GOxN'E ! • 

Gone till the end of the year. 

Gone, and the light gone with her and 

left me in shadow here ! 
Gone — flitted away, 
Taken the stars from the night and the 

sun from the day ! ^ 

Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a 

storm in the air ! 
Flown to the east or the west, flitted I 

know not where ! 
Dov.'n in the south is a flash and a 

groan : she is there ! she is there ! 



IV. 

WINTER. 

The frost is here, 
And fuel is dear, 
And woods are sear, 
And fires burn clear, 
And frost is here 
And has bitten the lieel of 
year. 



IMte, frost, bite ! 

You roll up away from the light 

The blue woodlouse and the plump 

dormouse, 
And the bees are still'd, and the flies 

are kill'd. 
And you bite far into the he.lrt of the 

house, 
But not in to mine. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

The woods are all the scare r, 

The fuel is all the dearer. 

The fires are all the clearer. 

My spring is all the nearer. 

You have bitten into the heart of the 

earth. 
But not into mine. 



SPRING. 

Birds' love and birds' song 

Flying here and there. 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

And you with gold for hair. 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

Paesing with the weather, 
Men's song and men's love, 

To love once and forever. 

Men's love and birds' love, 

And women's love and men's ! 
And you my wren with a crown of gold, 

You my Queen of the wrens ! 
You the Queen of the wrens — 

We'll be birds of a feather, 
I'll be King of the Queen of the wrens. 

And all in a nest together. 



VI. 



THE LETTER. 



the gomg 



Where is another sweet as my sweet. 
Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy "i 
Fine little hands, fine little feet — 
Dewy blue eye. 



AV. 



491 



Shall I write to her ? shall I go ? 

Ask her to marry me by and by ? 
Somebody said that she'd say no ; 

Somebody knows that she'll say ay ! 

Ay or no, if ask'd to her face ? 

'Ay or no, from shy of the shy ? 
Go, little letter, apace, apace, 

Fly! 
Fly to the light in the valley below — 
Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye : 
Somebody said that she'd say no ; 
Somebody knows that she '11 say ay ! 



VII. 

NO ANSWER. 

The mist and the rain, the mist and 
t-he rain ! 
Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? 
And never a glimpse of her v/indow- 
pane ! 
And I may die but the grass will 
grow, 
.:id the grass will grow when I am 

gone, 
-Viid the wet west wind and the world 
will go on. 

Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, 
No is trouble and cloud and storm, 
Av is life for a hundred years, 

'No will push me down to the worm, 
And when I am there and dead and 

gone, 
The wet west wind and the world will 
go on. 

The wind and the wet, the wind and 
the wet ! 
Wet west v.ind, how vou blow, you 
blow ! 
And never a line from my lady yet ! 

Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? 
Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, 
The wet west wind and the world may 
go on. 



VIII. 

NO ANSWER. 

Winds are loud and you are dumb : 
Take mv love, for love will come, 

Love will come but once a life. 
Winds are loud and winds will pass 
Spring is here with leaf and grass : 

Take my love and be my wife. 
After-loves of maids and men 
Are but dainties drest again : 
Love me now, you '11 love me then 

Love can love but once a life. 



IX. 

THE ANSVv'ER. 

Two little hands that meet, 
Claspt on her seal, my sweet ! 
Must I take you and break you, 
Two little hands that meet ? 
I must take you, and break you, 
And loving hands must part- 
Take, take— break, break — 
Break — you may break my ijeart. 
Faint heart never won — 
Break, break, and all 's done. 



ixb. 
AY 



Be merr)', all birds, to-day, 
Be merry on earth as you never were 
merry before. 
Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far 
away, 
And m.erry forever and ever, and 
one day more. 
Why .? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 

Look, look, how he flits. 

The fire-crown'd king of the wrens, 
from out of the pine ! 
Look hov/ they tumble the blossom, 
the mad litde tits ! 
" Cuck-oo ! Cuck-00 ! '' was ever 
May so fine ? 

Why ? 
For it's easv to find a rhyme. 



4y2 



GARE TH A ND L YNE TTE. 



merry the linnet and dove, 

And swallow and sparrow and 
throstle, and have your desire ! 
O merry my heart, you have gotten the 
wings of love, 
And flit like the king of the wrens 
with a crown of fire. 
Why? 
For it's ay ay ay, ay ay. 



X. 

WHEN ? 

Sun comes, moon comes, 

Time slips away. 
Sun sets, moon sets, 

Love, fix a day. 

" A year hence, a year hence»" 
" We shall both be gray." 

" A month hence, a month hence. 
" Far, far away." 

"A week hence, a week hence." 

" Ah, the long delay." 
" Wait a little, wait a' little, 

'■ You shall fix a day." 

*' To-morrow, love, to-morrow. 
And that 's an age away." 



Blaze upon her window, sun, 
And honor all the ilav. 



MARRIAGE MORNING. 

Light, so4ow upon earth. 

You send a flash to the sun 
Here is the golden close of love, 

All my wooing is done. 
O the woods and the meadows, 

Woods where we hid from the \^'et, 
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind, 

Meadows in which we m»et ! 
Light, so low in the vale, 

You flash and lighten afar : 
For this is the golden morning of love, 

And you are his morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I come, 

By meadow and stile and wood : 
O lighten into my eyes and my heart. 

Into my heart and tny blood ! 
Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires } 
O heart, are you great enough for love .'' 

I have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers, 

Over the meadows and stiles, 
Over the world to the end of it 

Flash for a million miles. 



G A R E T H AND L Y N E T T E 



The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, 

And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful 
spring 

Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted 
Pine 

Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl'd 
away. 

" How he went down," said Gareth, 
•' as a false knight 

Or evil king before my lance if lance 

Were mine to use — senseless cat- 
aract, 



Bearing all down in thy precipitancy — 
And yet thou art but swollen with cold 

snows, 
And mine is living blood: thou dost 

His Avill, 
The Maker's, and not knov/est, and I 

that know. 
Have strength and wit, in my good 

mother's hall 
Linger with vacillating obedience, 
Prison'd, and kept and coaxed and 

whistled to — 



GARETII AND LYNETTE. 



49: 



vSince the good mother holds mc still a 

child- 
Good mother is bad mother unto me ! 
A worse were better; yet no worse 

V!Ould I. 

Heaven yield her for it, but in mc put 

force 
To weary her cars with on^ continuous 

prayer, 
Until she let me fly discaged to sweep 
In ever-highering eagle-circles up 
To the great Son of Glory, and thence 

swoop 
Down upon all things base, and dash 

them dead, 
A knight of Arthur, working out his 

will, 
To cleanse the world. Wjiy, Gawain, 

when he came 
W*ith Modred hither in the summer- 
time, [knight. 
Ask'd m.e to tilt with him, the proven 
Modred for want of worthier v/as the 

judge, [said, 

Then I so shook him in the saddle, he 
' Thou hast half prevail'd against me,' 

said so — he — 
Tho' Modred biting his thin lips was 

mute, 
For he is alvvay sullen : what care I ? "' 

And Gareth went, and hovering 

round her chair, 
Ask'd, " Mother, tho' ye count me still 

the child. 
Sweet mother, do ye love the child ? " 

She laugh'd, 
"Thou art.b'ut a wild goose to ques- 
tion it." 
'• Then, mother, an ye love the child," 

he said, 
" Being a goose and rather tame than 

wild. 
Hear the child's story." "Yea, my 

well-beloved, 
An 'twere but of the goose and golden 

eggs." 

And Gareth answer'd her with kin- 
dling eyes, 
" Nay, nay,'good mother, but this egg 
oE mine 



Was fmcr gold than any goose can 

lay ; 
For this ah Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid 
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a 

palm 
As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours. 
And there was ever' haunting round 

the palm 
A lusty youth, but poor, who often 

saw 
The splendor sparkling from aloft, 

and thought 
* An I could climb and lay my hand 

upon it. 
Then were I wealthier than a leash of 

kings.' 
But ever when he rcach'd a hand to 

climb, 
One, that had loved him from his 

childhood, caught 
And stay'd him, 'Climb not lest thou 

break thy neck, 
I charge thee by my love,' and so the 

bo}-, 
Sweet mother, neither clom.b, nor 

brake his neck, 
But brake his very heart in pining for 

it, 
And past away." 

To whom the mother said, 
" True love, sweet son, had risk'd him- 
self and climb'd, 
And handed down the golden treasure 
to him." 

And Gareth answer'd her with kin- 
I dling eyes, 

"Gold? said I gold ?— ay than, why 
I he, or she, 

i Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world 
I Had ventured— /^<7^ the thing I spake 
I of been 

i Mere go],d— but this was all of that 
! true steel, 

j Whereof they forged the brand Excal- 
I ibur. 

And lightnings play'd about it in the 
j storm, 

j Aad all the little fowl were flurried at 
it. 



494 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



And there were cries and clashings in 

the nest, 
That sent him from his senses : let me 

go." 

Then Bellicent bemoan'd herself 

and said, 
" Hast thou no pity upon my loneli- 
ness ? 
Lo, where thy father Lot beside the 

hearth 
Lies like a log, and all but smoulder'd 

out! 
For ever since when traitor to the 

King 
He fought against him in the Barons' 

war, [tory, 

And Arthur gave him back his terri- 
His age hath slowly droopt, and now 

lies there 
A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable, 
Na more ; nor sees, nor hears, nor 

speaks, nor knows. • 
And both thy brethren are in Arthur's 

hall. 
Albeit neither loved with that full love 
1 feel for thee, nor worthy such a love : 
Stay therefore thou ; red berries charm 

the bird, 
And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, 

the wars, [p^ng 

Wlio never knewest finger-ache, nor 
Of wrench'd or broken limb — an often 

chance 
In those brain-stunning shocks, and 

tourney-falls. 
Frights to my heart ; but stay : follow 

the deer 
By these tall firs and our fast-falling 

burns ; [day ; 

So make thy manhood mightier day by 
Sweet is the chase : and I will seek 

thee out 
Some comfortable bride and fair, to 

grace 
Thy climbing life, and cherish my 

prone year. 
Till falling into Lot's forgctfulness 
I know not thee, myself, nor anything. 
Stay, my best son ! ye are yet more 

boy than man." 



Then Garcth, " An ye hold me yet 

for child. 
Hear vet once more the story of the 

child. 
For, mother, there was once a King, 

like ours ; 
The prince his heir, when tall and 

marriageable, 
Ask'd for a bride ; and thereupon the 

King 
Set two before him. One was fair, 

strong, arm'd — 
But to be won by force — and many 

men 
Desired her; one, good lack, no man 

desired. 
And these were the conditions of the 

King : 
That save he won the first by force, he 

needs 
Must wed that other, whom no man 

desired, 
A red-faced bride who knew herself so 

vile. 
That evermore she Icng'd to liide her- 
self, 
Nor fronted man or woman eye to 

eye — 
Yea— some she cleaved to, but they 

died of her. 
And one — they call'd her Fame : and 

one, O Mo'ther, 
How can ye keep me tether'd to you — 

Shame ! 
Man am I grown, a man's work must I 

do. 
Follow the deer .-* follow the Christ, 

the King, 
Live pure, speak true, right wrong. 

follow the King — 
Else, wherefore born ? " 

To whom the mother said* 
" Sweet son, for there be many who 

deem him not. 
Or will not deem him, wholly proven 

King— 
Albeit in mine own heart I knew him 

King, 
When I was frequent v.ith him iii m) 

youth, 



CARET/I AND LYNETTE. 



495 



And heard him Kingly speak, and 

doubted him 
No more than he, himself; but felt 

him mine, 
Of closest kin to me : yet — wilt thou 

leave 
Thine easeful bidding here, and risk 

thine all. 
Jjfe. limbs, for one that is not proven 

King? 
Stay, till the cloud that settles round 

liis birth 
llath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet 

son,'' 

And Garetii answer'd quicklv, 

" Not an hour, 
So that ye yield me — I will walk thro' 

fire, 
Mother, to gain it — your full leave to 

go- 
Not proven, who swept the dust of 

ruin'd Rome 
From off the threshold of the realm, 

and crush'd 
The Idolaters, and made the people 

free ? 
Who should be King save him who 

makes us free ? " 

So when the Queen, who long had 

sought in vain 
To break him from the intent to which 

he grevv', 
Found her son's will unv.-averingly 

one, '' 

She answer'd .craftily, " Will ye walk 

thro' fire ? 
Who w^alks thro* fire will hardly heed 

the smoke. 
Ay, go then, an ye must: only one 

proof, 
Before thou ask the King to make thee 

knight. 
Of thine obedience and thy love to 

me, 
Thy mother,— I demand." 

And Gareth cried, 
" A hard one, or a hundred, so 1 go. ! 
Nay — quick ! the proof to prove me to i 
the quick ! " 1 



But slowly spake the mother, look- 
ing at him, 

" Prince, thou shall go disgui;ied to 
Arther's hall, 

And hire thyself to serve for meats and 
drinks 

Among the scullions and the kitchen- 
knaves. 

And those that hand the dish across 
the bar. 

Nor shalt thou tell thy name to any 
one. 

And thou shalt ser\-e a twelvemonth 
and a day." 

For so the Queen believed tiiat 
when her son 

Beheld his only way to glory lead 

Low down thro' villain kitchen-vas- 
salage. 

Her own true Gareth was too princely- 
proud 

To pass thereby : so should he rest 
with her, 

Closed in her castle from the sound of 
arms 

Silent awhile v^•as Gareth, then re- 
plied, 
" The thrall in person may be free in 

soul. 
And I shall see the jousts. Thy son 

am I, 
And since thou art my mother, must 

obey. 
I therefore yield me freely to thy will ; 
For hence will I, disguised, and hire 

myself 
To serve with scullions and with 

kitchen-knaves ; 
Nor tell my name to any — no, not the 

King." 

Gareth awhile linger'd The mother's 
eye 
Full of the v/istful fear that he would 

And turning toward him wheresoe er 

he turn'd, 
Perplext his outwraxl purpose, till an 

hour, 



496 



GARETIl AND LYNETTE. 



f. 



When wakcn'cl by the wind which with 

full voice 
Swept bellowing thro' the darkness w.: 

to dawn, 
Tie rose, and out of slumber calling two 
That still had tended on him from his 

birth, 
Before the wakeful mother heard him, 

went. 

The three were clad like tillers of the 
soil. 

Southward they set their faces. The 
birds made 

Melody on branch, and melody in mid- 
air. 

The damp hill-slopes were quicken'd 
into green, 

And the live green had kindled into 
flowers, 

For it was past the time ot Easterday. 

So, when their feet were planted on 
the plain 

That broaden'd toward the base of 
Camclot, 

Far off they saw the silver-misty morn 
- Rolling her smoke about the Royal 
mount, 

That rose between the forest and the 
field. _ . _ 

At times the summit of the high city 
flash'd ; 

At times the spires and turrets half- 
way down 

Prick'd thro' the mist : at times the 
great gate shone 

Only, that opeu'd on the field below ; 

Anon, the whole fair city had disap- 
peared. 

Then those who went with Gareth 

were amazed. 
One crying, " Let us go no farther. 

lord. 
?iere is a city of Enchanters, built 
By fairy Kings." The second echo'd 

him, 
" Lord, we have heard from our wise 

men at home 
To Northward, that this King is not 

the King, 



But only changeling out of Fairyland, 

Who drave the heathen hence by sor- 
cery 

And Merlin's glamour." Then the first 
again, 

" Lord, there is no such city anywhere. 

But all a vision." 



Gareth answer'd them 
With laughter,s\^-earing he hadglamour 

enow 
In his own blood, his princedom, youth 

and hopes, 
To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian 

sea ; 
So push'd them all unwilling toward 

the gate. 
And there was no gate like it under 

heaven ; 
For barefoot on the keystone, which 

was lined 
And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave, 
The Ladj(j)f the Lake stood : all her 

dress "^ '"-- 
Wept from her sides as water flowing 

away ; 
But like the cross her great and goodly 

arms 
Stretch'd under all the cornice and up- 
held : 
And drops of water fell from either 

hand ; 
And down from one a sword was hung, 

from one 
A censer, either worn with wind and 

storm ; 
And o'er her breast floated the sacred 

fish; 
And in the space to left of her, and 

right. 
Were Arthur's wai^ m weird devices 

done, 
New things and old co-twisted, as if 

Time 
Were nothing, so inveterately, that men 
Were giddy gazing there ; and over all 
High on the top were those three 

Queens, the friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at his- 

need. 



GARETH AXD LYNETTE. 



49/ 



Then those with Gareth for so long 

a space 
Stared at the figures, that at last it 

seem'd 
The dragon-boughs and elvish em- 

blemings 
Began to move, seethe, twine and curl : 

they call'd 
To Gareth, " Lord, the gateway is 

alive." 

And Gareth likewise on them fixt 

his eyes 
So long, that ev'n to him they seem'd 

to move. 
Out of the city a blast of music peal'd. 
Back from the gate started the three, 

to whom 
From out thereunder came an ancient 

man, 
Long-bearded, sajing, ''Who be ye, 

my sons ? " 

Then Gareth, •' We be tillers of the 

soil, 
Who leaving share in furrow come to 

see 
The glories of our King: but these, 

my men, 
\Your city moved so weirdly in the 

mist),' 
Doubt if the King be King at all, or 

come 
From Fairyland ; and whether this be 

built 
By magic, and' by fairy Kings and 

Queens; 
Or whether there be any city at all, 
Or all a vision ; and this music now 
Hath scared them both, but tell thou 

these the truth." 

Then that old Seer made answer 

playing on him 
And saying, " Son, I have seen the 

good ship sail 
Keel upward and mast downward in 

the heavens. 
And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air: 
And here is truth ; but an' it please 

thee not, 

32 



Take thou the truth as thou hast told 

it me. 
For truly, as thou sayest, a Fairy King 
And Fairy Queens have built the citv, 

son ; 
They came from out a sacred mountain- 
cleft 
Toward the sunrise, each with harp in 

hand, 
And built it to the music of their 

harps. 
And as thou sayest, it is enchanted, 

son, 
For there is nothing in it as it seems 
Saving the King; tho' some there be 

that hold 
The King a shadow, and the city real: 
Yet take thou heed of him, for, ^o 

thou pass 
Beneath this archway, then wilt ihou 

become 
A thrall to his enchantmentSj for tiie 

King 
Will bind thee by such vows, as is a 

shame 
A man should not be bound by, yet the 

which 
No man can keep ; but, so thou dread 

to swear, 
Pass not beneath this gateway, but 

abide 
Without, among the cattle of the field. 
For, an ye heard a m.usic, like enow 
They are building still, seeing the city 

is built 
To music, therefore never built at all, 
And therefore built forever. 

Gareth spake 
Anger'd, " Old Master, reverence thine. 

own beard 
That looks as white as utter truth, and 

seems 
Wellnigh as long as thou are statured 

tall ! 
Why mockest thou the stranger that 

hath been 
To thee fair spoken ? " 

But the Seei replied 
"Know ye not then the Riddling of 
the Bards ? 



49B 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



'Confusion, and illusion, and relation, 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion?' 
I mock thee not but as thou mockest 

mc, 
And ail that see thee, for thou art not 

who 
Thou seemest, but I know thee who 

thou art. 
And now thou goest up to mock the 

King, 
Who cannot brook the shadow of any 

lie." 

Unmockingly the mocker ending 
here 

Turn'd to the right, and past along the 
plain ; 

■^yiioni Garcth looking after, said, "My 
men, 

Our one white lie sits like a little 
ghost 

Here on the threshold of our enter- 
prise. 

Let love be blamed for it, not she, 
nor I : 

Well, we will make amends." 

With all good cheer 
lie spake and langh'd, then enter'd 

with his twain 
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces. 
And stately, rich in emblem and the 

work 
Of ancient Kings who did their days 

jn stone ; 
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at 

Arthur's court, 
Knowing all arts, had touch'd, and 

everywhere 
At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessen- 
ing peak 
And pinnacle, and had made it spire to 

heaven. 
And ever and anon a knight would 

pass 
Outward, or inward to the hall : his 

ra'ms 
Clash'd; and the sound was goou to 

Gareth's car. 
And out of bower and casement .^hyly 

glanced 



Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars 

of love; 
And all about a healthful people stept 
As in the presence of a gracious King, 

Then into hall Gareth ascending 

heard 
A voice, the voice of Arthur, and be- 
held 
Far over heads in that long-vaulted 

hall 
The splendor of the presence of the 

King 
Throned, and delivering doom — and 

look'd no more — 
But felt his young heart hammering in 

his ears, 
And thought, " For this half-shadow of 

a lie 
The truthful King will doom me when 

I speak." 
Yet pressing on, tho' all in fear to 

find 
Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor 

one 
Nor other, but in all the listening 

eyes 
Of those tall knights, tlmt ranged about 

the throne, 
Clear honor shining like the dewy 

star 
Of dawn, and faith in their great King, 

with pure 
Affection, uid the light of victor}', 
And glory gain'd, and evermore to 

gain. 

Then came a widow crying to the 

King, 
''A boon. Sir King! Thy father, 

Uther, reft 
From my dead lord a field with vio- 
lence. 
For howsoe'er at first he proffer'd 

gold, 
Yet, for the field was pleasant in our 

eyes, 
We yielded not; and then he reft us 

of it 
Perforce, and left us neither gold nor 

fi-ld." 



iiAXETH AND LYNETl'M. 



499 



Said Arthur, "Whether would ve 

gold or field ? " 
To whom the woman weeping, " Naj-, : 

my lord, 
The field was pleasant in my husband's 

eye." 

And Arthur, " Have thy pleasant 

field again, 
And thrice the gold for Uther's use 

thereof, 
According to the years. No boon is 

here, 
But justice, so thy say be proven true. 
Accursed, who from the wrongs his 

father did 
Would shape himself a right ! '' 

And while she past, 
Came yet another widow crying to 

him, 
"A boon. Sir King! Thine enemy, 

King, am I. 
AV ith thine own hand thou slewest my 

dear lord, 
A knight of Uther in the Barons' war. 
When Lot atid many another rose and 

fought 
Against thee, saying thou wert basely 

born. 
I held with these, and loath to ask 

thee aught. 
Yet lo ! my husband's brother had my 

son 
Thrall'd in his castle, and hath starved 

him dead ; 
And standeth seized of that inheritance 
Which thou that slewest the sire hast j 

left the son. 
So tho' I scarce can ask it thee for hate, ! 
Grant me some knight to do the battle 

for me, ' 

Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for 

my son." | 

Then strode a good knight forward, { 
crying to him, | 

" A boon, Sir King ! I am her kinsman, i 
I. j 

Give me to right her wrong, and slay 
the man." 1 



Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, 

and cried, 
" A boon, Sir King ! ev'n that thou 

grant her none, 
This railer, that hath mock'd thee in 

full hail- 
None ; or the wholesome boon of gyve 

and gag." 

But Arthur, " We sit. King, to help 

the wrong'd 
Thro' all our realm. The woman loves 

her lord. 
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves 

ar.d hates ! 
The kings of old had doom'd thee to 

the flames, 
Aurelius Emrys would have scourged 

thee dead. 
And Uther slit thy tongue : but get 

thee hence — 
Lest that rough humor of the kings of 

old 
Return upon me ! Thou that art her 

kin, 
Go likewise ; lay him low and slay him 

not. 
But bring him here, that I may judge 

the right, 
According to the justice of the King : 
Thenj be he guilty, by that deathless 

King ' 

Who lived and died for men, the man 

shall die." 

Then came in hall the messenger of 

Mark, 
A name of evil savor in the land, 
The Cornish king. In either hand he 

bore 
W^hat dazzled all, and shone far-off as 

shines 
'A field of charlock in the sudden sun 
Between two showers, a cloth of palest 

gold, 
Which down he laid before the throne, 

and knelt, 
Delivering, that his Lord, the vassal 

king, 
Was ev'n upon his way to Camelot ; 
For having heard that Arthur of his 

grace 



500 



§ARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, 

kniqht, 
And, for himself was of the greater 

state, 
Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord 
Would yield him this large honor all 

the more ; 
So pray'd him well to accept this cloth 

of gold, 
In token of true heart and fealty. 

Then Arthur cried to rendthe cloth, 

to rend 
In pieces and so cast it on the hearth. 
An oak-tree smouldered there. " The 

goodly knight ! 
^Vhat ! shall the shield of Mark stand 

among these ? " 
For midway down the side of that long 

hall 
A stately pile,— whereof along the front 
Some biazon'd, some but carven, and 

some blank, 
There are a treble range of stony 

shields, — 
Rose and high-arching overbrow'd the 

hearth. 
And under every shield a knight was 

named : 
For this was Arthur's custom in his 

hall ; 
When some good knight had done one 

noble deed, 
His arms were carven only ; but if 

twain 
His arms were biazon'd also ; but if 

none 
The shield was blank and bare without 

a sign 
Saving the name beneath ; and Gareth 

saw 
The shield of Gawain biazon'd rich aijd 

bright, 
And Alodred's blank as death ; and 

Arthur cried 
To rend the cloth and cast it on the 

hearth. 

" More like are wc to reave him of 
his crown 
Than make him knight because men 
call him king. 



The kings we found, ye know we stay'd 

their hands 
From war among themselves, but left 

them kings; 
Of whom were any bounteous, merciful, 
Truth-si)eaking, 'brave, good livers, 

them we enroll'd 
Among us, and they sit within our hall. 
But Mark hath tarnish'd the great name 

of king, 
As Mark would sully the low state of 

churl : 
And seeing he hath sent us cloth of 

gold. 
Return, and meet, and hold him from 

our eyes, 
Lest we should lap him up in cloth of 

lead, [plots, 

Silenced forever— craven — a man of 
Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside 

ambushings — 
No fault of thine : let Kav, the senes- 
chal, 
Look to thy wants, and send thee 

satisfied — 
Accursed, who strikes nor lets the 

hand be seen ! " 

And many another suppliant crying 

came 
With noise of ravage wrought by beast 

and man, _ '; 

And evermore a knight would ride 

away. 

Last Gareth leaning both hands 

heavily 
Down on the shoulders of tlie twain, 

his men, 
Approach'd between them toward the 

King, and ask'd, 
" A boon, Sir King (his voice was all. 

ashamed), 
For see ye not how weak and hunger- 

■ worn 
I seem — leaning on these ? graiU me to 

serve 
For meat and drink among the kitchen- 
knaves 
A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my 

name. 
i Hereafter I will fight." 



GARETII AND LYNETTE. 



SOI 



To him the King, 
" A goodly youth and worth a goodlier 

boon ! 
But an thou wilt no goodlier, then must 

Kay, 
The master of the meats and drinks be 

thine." 

He rose and past ; then Kay, a man 
of mien 
Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself 
Root-bitten by white lichen, 

" Lo ye now ! 
This fellow hath broken from some 

Abbey, where, 
Got wot, he had not beef and brewis 

enow, 
However that might chance ! but an he 

work, 
Like any pigeon will I cram his crop. 
And sleeker shall he shine than any 

hog." 

Then Lancelot standing near, " Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, 

and all the hounds ; 
A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost 

not know : 
Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and 

fmc, 
High nose, a nostril large and fine, and 

hands 
Large, fair and fuie ! — Some young lad's 

mystery — 
But, or from shcepcot or king's hall, 

the boy 
Is noble-natured. Treat him with all 

grace. 
Lest he should come to shame thy jud- 
ging of him." 

I'lien Kay, *' What murmurest thou 

of mystery .' 
Think ye this fellow will poison the 

King's dish } 
Nay, for he spake too fool-like ; mys- 

' tery ! 
Tut, an the lad were noble, he had 

ask'd 
For horse and armor : fair and fine, 

forsooth ! 



Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands .' but see 

thou to it 
That thine own fineness, Lancelot, 

some' fine day 
Undo thee not— and leave my man to 

me." 

So Gareth*all for glory underwent 

The sooty yoke of kitchen vassalage ; 

Ate with young lads his portion by the 
door. 

And couch'd at night with grimy kit- 
chen-knaves. 

And Lancelot ever spake him pleas- 
antly, 

But Kay the seneschal who loved him 
not 

Would hustle and harry him, and labor 
him 

Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and 
set 

To turn the broach, draw water, or 
hew wood. 

Or grosser tasks ; and Gareth bow'd 
himself 

With all obedience to the King, and 
wrought 

All kind of service with a noble ease 

That graced the lowliest act in doing 
it. 

And when the thralls had talk among 
themselves 

And one would praise the love that 
linkt the King 

And Lancelot — how the King had 
saved his life 

In battle twice, and Lancelot once the 
King's — 

For Lancelot was the first in Tourna- 
ment, 

But Arthur mightiest on the battle- 
field— 

Gareth was glad. Or if some other 
told. 

How once the wandering forester at 
dawn. 

Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas. 

On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King 

A naked babe, of whom the Prophet 
spake, 

" He passes to the Isle Avilion, 



502 



GARE THA ND L YNE TTE. 



He passes and is heal'd and cannot 
die." — 



This, Gareth hearing from a squire 
of Lot 



Gareth was glad. But if their talk t With whom he used to play at tourney 

were foul, j once, 

Then would he whistle rapid as any , When both were children, and in lonely 

lark, ' i haunts 

Or carol some old roundelay, and so ' Would scratch a ragged oval on the 



loud 

That first they mock'd, but, after, rev- 
erenced him. 

Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale 

Of knights, who sliced a red life-bub- 
bling way [held 

Thro' twenty folds of twisted dragon. 

All in a gap mouth'd circle his good 
mates 

Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, 

Charm'd ; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, 
would come [wind 

Blustering upon them, like a sudden 

Among dead leaves, and drive them I The King alone, and found, and told 
all apart. I him all. 

Or when the thralls had sport among i ^ , , , , r. • 

themselves ^ '■ " -^ have stagger d tiiy strong Gawani 

So there were anv trial of mastery, | '^^ ''• V . , . 

He, by two yards in casting bar or \ 1^^^" pastime ; yea he said it: joust 
stone I ^'^'^ 

Was counted best ; and if there j ^^I^^^e me thy knight-in secret ! let my 
chanced a joust, ,, , V'y,\^^ , . , ^ 

So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to : ^^ ^1^1^ n, and give me the first quest, 



sand, 
And each at either dash from either 

end — 
Shame never made girl redder than 

Gareth joy. 
Ilelaugh'd; he sprang. "Out of the 

smoke, at once 
I leap fiom Satan's foot to Peter's 

knee — 
These news be mine, none other's — 

nay, the King's — 
Descend into the city : " whereon he 

soueht 



go, 



Would hurry thither, and when he saw 

the knights 
Clash like the coming and retiring 

wave. 
And the spear spring, and good horse 

reel, the boy 
Was half bevond himself for ecstasv. 



I spring 
Like fiame from ashes." 



Here the King's calm eye 
l-'e!l on, and check'd, and made him 

flush, and bow 
Lowly, to kiss his hand, wlio answer'd 

him, 
'■ Son, the good mother let me know 
! thee here, 

So for a month he wrought among | And sent her wish that I would yield 
the thralls ; j thee thine. 

But in the weeks that follow'd, the good Make thee mv knight? my knights are 

Queen, sworn to'vov.s" 

Repentant of the word she made him | Qf utter hardihood, utter gentleness, 
swear. And loving, utter faithfulness in love, 

And saddening in her childless castle, And uttermost obedience to the King." 

sent, j 

Between tlie increscent and decrescent j Then Gareth, lightly springing from 



moon. 
Arms for her son, and loosed him 
from his vow. 



his knees, 
*' My King, for hardihood I can pro- 
mise thee. 



CARET!/ AND LYNETTE. 



503 



For uttermost obedience make de- 
mand 

Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, 

No mellow master of the m.eats and 
drinks ! 

And as for love, God wot, I love not 
yet, 

Bat love I shall, God willing." 

And the King — 
" Make thee my knight in secret ? yea, 

but he, 
Our noblest brother, and our truest 

man, 
And one with me in all, he needs must 

know." 

*' I-et Lancelot know, my King, let 
Lancelot know, 
Thy noblest and thy truest ! " 

And the King — 
" But wherefore would ye men should 

wonder at you ? 
Nay, rather for the sake of me, their 

' King, 
And the deed's sake my knighthood 

do the deed. 
Than to be noised of." 

Merrily Gareth ask'd, 

" Have I not earn'd my cake in bak- 
ing of it ? 

Let be my name until I make my 
name ! 

My deeds will speak : it is but for a 
day." 

So with a kindly hand on Garcth's 
arm 

Smiled the great King, and half unwil- 
lingly 

Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to 
him. 

Then, after summoning Lancelot pri- 
vily, 

" I have given him the first quest : he 
is not proven. 

Look therefore when he calls for this 
in hall, 

Thou get to horse and follow him far 
awav. 



Cover the lions on thy shield, and see 
Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en 
nor slain." 

Then that same day there past into 
the hall 

A damsel of high lineage, and a brow 

May-blossom, and a cheek of apple- 
blossom, 

Hawk-eyes ; and lightly was her slen- 
derViOse 

Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower ; 

She into hall past v/ith her page and 
cried, 

*' O King, for thou hast driven the 

foe without, 
See to the foe within ! bridge, ford, 

beset 
By bandits, every one that owns a 

tower 
The Lord for half a league. Why sit 

ye there ? 
Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were 

king, 
Till ev'n the lonest hold were all as 

free 
From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar- 
cloth 
From that blest blood it is a sin to 

spill." 

" Comfort thyself," said Arthur, " I 

nor mine 
Rest : so my knighthood keep the vows 

they swore. 
The wastest moorland of our realm 

shall be 
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. 
What is thy name ? thy need t 



y- 



" My name ? " she said — 
*■ Lynette my name ; noble ; my need, 

a knight 
To combat for my sister, Lyonors, 
A lady of high lineage, of great lands, 
And comely, yea, and comelier than 

myself. 
She lives in Castle Perilous : a river 
Runs in three loops about her living- 
place ; 



5<54 



GARETH AiVD L YNETTE. 



And o'er it are three passings, and three 
knights 

Defend the passings, brethren, and a 
fourth, 

And of that four the mightiest, holds 
her stay'd 

Tn her own castle and so besieges her 

To break her will, and make her wed 
with him : 

And but delays his purport till thou 
send 

To do the battle with him, thy chief 
man 

Sir Lancelot w'hom he trusts to over- 
throw, 

Then wed, with glory ; but she will 
not wed 

Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. 

Now therefore have I come for Lance- 
lot." 

Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth 

ask'd, 
" Damsel, ye know this Order lives to 

crush 
All wrongers of the Realm. But say, 

these four, 
Who be they.'' What the fashion of 

the men ? " 

" They be of foolish fashion, O Sir 
King, 

The fashion of that old knight-erran- 
try 

Who ride abroad and do but what they 
will ; 

Courteous or bestial from the moment, 

Such as have nor law nor king : and 
three of these 

I'roud in their fantasy call themselves, 
the Day, 

Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and 
Evening-Star, 

Being strong fools ; and never a whit 
more wise 

The fourth who always rideth arm'd in 
black, 

A huge man-beast of boundless sav- 
agery. 

He names himself the Night and 
of tenor Death, 



And wears a helmet mounted with a 
skwll 

And bears a skeleton figured on his 
arms. 

To show that whom.y slay or scape 
the three 

Slain by himself shall enter endless 
night. 

And all these four be fools, but mighty 
men. 

And therefore am I come for Lance- 
lot." 

Hereat Sir Gareth call'd from where 

he rose, 
A head with kindling eyes above the 

throng, 
"A boon, Sir King — this quest! " then 

— for he mark'd 
Kay near him groaning like a wounded 

bull— 
"■ Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen- 
knave am I, 
And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks 

am I, 
And I can topple over a hundred such. 
Thy promise. King," and Arthur 

glancing at him, 
Brought down a momentary brow. 

"Rough, sudden. 
And pardonable, worthy to be knight — 
Go therefore," and all hearers were 

amazed. 

But on the damsel's forehead shame, 

pride, wrath, 
Slew the May-white : she lifted either 

arm, 
" Fie on thee. King ! I ask'd for thy 

chief knight, 
And thou hast given me but a kitchen- 
knave." 
Then ere a man in hall could stay her, 

turn'd. 
Fled down the lane of access to the 

King, 
Took horse, descended the slope street, 

and past 
The weird white gate, and paused 

without, beside 
The field of tourney, murmuring 

"kitchen-knave." 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



y>5. 



Now two great entries open'd from 
the hall, 
At one end one, that gave upon a 

range 
Of level pavement where the King 

would pace 
At stuirise, gazing over pUin and 

wood. 
And down from this a lordly stairway 

sloped 
Till lost in blowing trees and tops of 

towers. 
And out by this main doorway past the 

King. 
But one was counter to the hearth, and 

rose 
High that the highest-crested helm 

could ride 
Therethro' nor graze : and by this 

entry fled 
The damsel in her wrath, and on to 

this 
Sir Gareth strode, and saw without 

the door 
King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a 

town, 
A war-horse of the best, and near it 

stood 
The two that out of north had follov.'d 

him. 
This bare a maiden shield, a casque ; 

that held 
The horse, the spear; whereat Sir 

Gareth loosed 
\ cloak that dropt from collar-bone to 

heel, 
A cloth of roughest web, r.nd cast it 

down, 
\nd from it like a fuel-siuother'd fire, 
That looict half-dead, brak^ bright, 

and flashed as those 
Dull-coated things, that making slide 
apart 
t Their dusk wing-cases, all beneatn 
there burns 
A jewel'd harness, ere they pass and 

So Gareth ere he parted flash' d in 

arms. 
Then while he donn'd tlu .lelm, :v.Ki 

took the shield 



And mounted horse and graspt a spear, 

of grain 
Storm-strengthen'd on a windy site, 

and tipt 
With trenchant steel, around him 

slowly prest 
The people, and from out of kitchen 

came 
The thralls in throng, and seeing who 

had work'd 
Lustier than any, and whom they 

could but love, 
Mounted in arms, threw up their caps 

and cried, 
"God bless the King, and all his fel- 
lowship ! " 
And on thro' lanes of shouting Gareth 

rode 
Down the slope street, ^.nd ;:ast witl 

out the gate. 

So Gareth past with joy; but a, the 

cur 
Pluckt from the cur he fights with, re 

his cause 
Be coord by lighting, follows, beir,^ 

named. 
His owner, but remembers all, and 

growls 
Remembering, so Sir Kay beside tlie 

door 
Mutter'd in scorn of Gareth wl-.om he 

used 
To harry and hustle. 

" Bound upon a quest 
With horse and arms— the King hath 

past his time — 
My scullion knave ! Thralls to your 

work again, 
For an vour 5re below ve kindle mine! 
Will there be dawn 'in West and 

eve in East ? 
I^egone !— my knave !— belike and like 

enow 
Some old head-blow not heeded in his 

youth 
So shook his wits they wander m his 

prime — 
Crazed ! How the villain lifted up his 

voice. 



5P6*^ 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen- 
knave. 
Tut: he was tame and meek enow 

with me, 
Till pcacock'd up with Lancelot's 

noticing. 
Well — I will after my loud knave, and 

learn- 
Whether he know me for his master 

yet. 
Out of the smoke he came, and so my 

lance 
Mold, by God's grace, he shall into 

the mire — 
Thence, if the King awaken from his 

cra7e, 
Into the smoke again." 

But Lancelot said, 
" Kay, wherefore will ye go against the 

King, 
For that did never he whereon ye rail, 
But ever meekly served the King in 

thee } 
Abide : take counsel ; for this lad is 

great 
And lusty, and knowing both of lance 

and sword." 
" Tut, tell not me," said Kay, *ye are 

over-fine 
To mar stout knaves with foolish 

courtesies." 
Then mounted, on thro' silent faces 

rode 
Down the slope city, and out beyond 

the gate. 

But by the field of tourney lingering 

yet 
Muttered the damsel, *' Wherefore did 

the King 
Scorn me ? for, were Sir Lancelot 

lackt, at least 
He might have yielded to me one of 

those 
Who tilt for lady's love and glory here, 
Rather than — O sweet heaven \ O fie 

upon him — 
His kitchen-knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth drew 
(And there were none but few goodlier 
than he) 



Shining in arms, " Damsel, the quest is 
mine. 

Lead, and I follow." She thereat, as 
one 

That smells a foul-flesh'd agaric in the 
holt, 

And deems it carrion of some wood- 
land ^hing, [nose 

Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender 

With petulant thumb and finger, shrill- 
ing, " Hence ! 

Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen- 
grease. 

And look who comes behind," for there 
was Kay. 

" Knowest thou not me ? thy master ? 
I am Kay. 

We lack thee by the hearth." 

And Gareth to him, 
" Master no more ! too well I know 

thee, ay — 
The most ungentle knight in Arthur's 

hall" 
" Have at thee then," said Kay ; they 

shock'd, and Kay 
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried 

again, 
" Lead, and I follow," and fast av.ay 

she fled. 

But after sod and shingle ceased to 

fly 

Behind her, and the heart of her good 
horse 

Was nigh to burst with violence of 
the beat, 

Perforce she stay'd, and overtaken 
spoke. 

" What doest thou, scullion, in my 
fellowship ? 

Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught 
the more. 

Or love thee better, that by some de- 
vice 

Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness, 

Thou hast overthrown and sUin thy 
master — thou I — 

Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon ! 
— to me 

Thou smellest all of kitchen as be- 
fore " 



GARETII AND LYNETTE. 



507 



"Damse]," Sir Gareth auswcr'd 

gently, " sz.y 
Whate'er' ye will, but whatsoe'er ye 

say, 
I leave not till I finish this fair quest, 
Or die therefor." 

" Av, wilt thou finish it ? 
Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he 

talks ! 
The listening rogue hath caught the 

manner of it. 
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met 

with, knave. 
And then by such a one that thou for 

all 
The kitchen brewis that was ever supt 
Shalt not once dare tc look him in the 

face." 

*' I shall assay," said Gareth with a 

smile 
That madden'd her, and away she 

flash' d again 
Down the long avenues of a bound- 
less wood, 
And Gareth following was again be- 

knaved. 
" Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss'd 

the only way 
Where Arthur's men are set along the 

wood ; 
The wood is nigh as full of thieves as 

leaves : 
If both be slain, I am rid of thee ; but 

yet. 
Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit 

of thine t 
Fight, an thou canst : I have fniss'd 

the only way." 

So till the dusk that follov/ed even- 
song 
Rode on the two, reviler and reviled : 
Then after one long slope was mounted, 

saw, 
Bowl-shaped, thro' tops of many thou- 
sand pines, 
A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink 
To westward — ^in the deeps whereof a 

mere, 
Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl, 



Under the half-dead sunset glared i 

and cries 
Ascended, and there brake a serving- 
„ man 
inlying from out of the black wood, 

and crying, 
"They have bound my lord to cast him 

in the mere." 
Then Gareth, ''Bound am I to right 

the wrong'd, 
Butstraitlier bound am I to bide with 

thee." 
And when the damsel spake contempt- 
uously, 
"Lead and I follow," Gareth cried 

again, 
" Follow, I lead ! " so down among the 

pines 
He plunged, and there, black-shadow'd 

nigh the mere. 
And mid-thigh-deep, in bulrushes and 

reed, 
Saw six tall men haling a sevejith along, 
A stone about his neck, to drown him 

in it. 
Three with good blows he quieted, but 

three 
Fled thro' the pines; and Gareth 

loosed the stone 
From off his neck, then in the mere 

beside 
Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the 

mere. 
Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on 

free feet 
Set him a stalwart Baron, Arthur's 

friend. 

" Well that ye came, or else these 
caitiff rogues 

Had wreak'd themselves on me ; good 
cause is theirs 

To hate me, for my wont hath ever been 

To catch my thief, and then like ver- 
min here 

Drown him, and with a stone about his 
neck ; 

And under this wan water many of 
them 

Lie rottenir.g, but at night let go the 
stone, 



5oS 



GARETH AND L YNETTE. 



And rise, and flickering in a grimly 
light 

Dance en the mere. Good now, ye 
have saved a life 

Worth somewhat as the cleanser of 
this wood. 

And fain would I reward thee worship- 
fully. 

What guerdon will ye ? " j 

Gareth sharply spake, j 
" None ! for the deed's sake' have I I 

done the deed. 
In uttermost obedience to the King. 
But will ve yield this damsel harbor- 
age .>'" 

Whereat the Baron saying, " I well 
believe 

Ve be of Arthur's Table," a light laugh 

Broke from Lynette, "Ay, truly of a 
truth, 

And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen- 
knave ! — 

But deem not I accept thee aught the 
more, 

Scullion, for running sharply with thy j 
spit 

Down on a rout of craven foresters. 

A thresher with his flail had scatter'd 
them. 

Nay — for thou smellcst of the kitchen 

But an this lord will yield us harbor- 
Well." 

So she spake. A league beyond 

the wood, 
All in a full-fair manor and a rich. 
His towers where that day a feast had 

been 
Held in high hall, and many a viand 

left. 
And many a costly cate, received the 

three. 
And there they placed a peacock in his 

pride 
Before the damsel, and the Baron set 
Gareth beside her, but at once she 

rose. 



" Meseems that their is much dis- 
courtesy, 

Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my 
side. 

Hear me — this m.orn I stood in Arthur's 
hall. 

And pray'd the King would grant me 
Lancelot 

To fight the brotherhood of Day and 
Night— 

The last a monster unsubduable 

Of any save of him for whom I call'd — 

Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen- 
knave, 

* The quest is mine ; thy kitchen-knave 
am I, 

And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks 
am L' 

Then Arthur all at once gone mad re- 
plies, 

' Go therefore,' and so gives the quest 
to him — 

Him — here — a villain fitter to stick 
swine 

Than*ride abroad redressing women's 
wrong, 

Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman." 

Then half-ashamed and part amazed, 
the lord 

Now look'd at one and now at other, 
left 

The damsel by the peacock in his 
pride, 

And, seating Gareth at another board. 

Sat down beside him, ate and then be- 
gan. 

"Friend, whether ye be kitchen- 
knave, or not. 

Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy. 

And whether she be mad, or else the 
King, 

Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, 

I ask not ; but thou strikest a strong 
stroke. 

For strong thou art and goodly there- 
withal. 

And saver of my life ; and therefore 
now, 

For here be mighty men to joust with, 
weigh 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



509 



Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel | Rough thicketed were the banks and 



back 



steep ; the stream 



To crave again Sir Lancelot of the j Full, narrow ; this a bridge of single 

arc 
Took at a leap ; and on the further 

side 
Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold 
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily 

in hue, 
Save that the dome was purple, and 

above, 
Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. 
And therebcfore the lawless warrior 

paced 
Unarm'd, and calling, " Damsel, is this 

he. 
The champion ye have brought from 

Arthur's liall ? 
For \yhom we let thee pass." *'Na)', 

nay," she said, 
'* Sir Morning-Star. The King in 

utter scorn 
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent 

thee here 
His kitchen-knave : and look thou to 

thyself : 
See that he fall not on thee suddenly, 
And slay thee unarm'd : he is not 

knight but knave." 



King 
Thy pardon; I but speak for thine 

avail, 
The saver of my life." 

And Gareth said, 
" Full pardon, but I follow up the 

quest, 
Despite of Day and Night and Death 

and Hell."' 

So when, next morn, the lord whose 

life he saved 
Had, some brief space, convey'd them 

on their way 
And left them with God-speed, Sir 

Gareth spake, 
" Lead, and 1 follow." Haughtily she 

replied, 

" I fly no more : I allow thee for an 

hour. 
Lion and stoat have isled together, 

knave, 
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, 

methinks 
Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt 

thou, fool } 
For hard by here is one will overthrow 
And slay thee: then will I to court 

again, 
And shame the King for only yielding 

me 
My champion from the ashes of his 

hearth." 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd 

courteously, 
" Say thou thy say, and I will do my 

deed. 
Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt 

find 
My fortunes ail as fair as hers, Vvho lay 
xAmong the ashes and wedded the 

King's son." 

Then to the shore of one of those 
long loops 
Wherethro' the serpent river coil'd, 
they came. 



Then at his call, " O daughters of 
the Dawn, 

And servants of the Morning-Star, ap- 
proach, 

Arm me," from out the silken curtain- 
folds 

Bareofooted and bare headed three 
fair girls 

In gilt and rosy raiment came : their 
•feet 

In dewy grasses glisten'd ; and the 
hair 

All over glanced with dewdrop or with 
gem 

Like sparkles m the stone Avanturme. 

These arm'd him in blue arms, and 
gave a shield 

Blue also, and thereon the morning 
star. 

And Gareth silent gazed upon the 
knight, 



510 



LIRETII AND L YNETTE. 



Who stood a moment, ere liis horse 

^Yas brought, 
Glorying ; and in the stream beneath 

him, shone, 
Imminglcd with Heaven's azure waver- 

ingly, 
The gay pavilion and the naked feet, 
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the 

star. 

Then she that watch'd him, " Where- 
fore stare ye so ? 

Thou shakcst in thy fear : there yet is 
time : 

Flee down the valley before he get to 
horse. 

Who will cry shame ? Thou art not 
knight but knave." 

Said Gareth, " DamseJ, whether 
knave or knight, 
Far liever had I fight a score of times 
Than hear thee so missay me and re- 
vile. 
Fair words were best for him who 

fights for thee ; 
But truly foul are better, for they send 
That strength of anger thro' mine arms, 

I know 
That I shall overthrow him." 

And he that bore 
The star, being mounted, cried from 

o'er the bridge, 
" A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of 

me ! 
Such fight not I, but answer scorn with 

scorn. 
For this were shame to do him further 

wrong 
Than set him on his feet, and take his 

horse 
And arras, and so return him to the 

King. 
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, 

knave. 
Avoid : for it beseemeth not a knave 



" Dog, thou liest. 
I spring from loftier lineage than thine 
own^" 



He spake ; and all at fiery speed the 

two 
Shock'd on the central bridge, and 

either spear 
Bent but not brake, and either knight 

at once, [pult 

Hurl'd as a stone from out of a cata- 
Beyond his horse's crupper and the 

bridge, 
Fell, as if dead ; but quickly rose and 

drew, [brand 

And Gareth lash'd so fiercely with his 
He drave his enemy backward down 

the bridge. 
The damsel crying, " Well-stricken, 

kitchen-knave ! " 
Till Gareth's shield was cloven ; but 

one stroke 
Laid him that clove it grovelling on 

the ground. 

Then cried the faH'n, "Take not my 

life: I yield." 
And Gareth, " So this damsel ask it of 

me 
Good — I accord it easily as a grace." 
She reddening, " Insolent scullion : I 

of thee ? 
I l)ound to thee for any favor ask'd ! " 
"Then shall he die." And Gareth 

there unlaced 
His helmet as to slay him, but she 

shriek'd, 
" Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay 
One nobler than thyself." " Damsel, 

thv charge 
Is an abounding pleasure to me. 

Knight, 
Thy life is thine at her command. 

Arise 
And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and 

say 
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See 

thou crave 
His pardon for thy breaking of his 

laws. 
Myself, when I return, will plead for 

thee. 
Thy shield is mine— farewell ; and, 

damsel, thou 
Lead, and I follow." 



CARETH AND LYNETTE. 



511 



And fast away she fled. 
Then when he came upon her, spake, 

" Methought, 
Knave, when I watch' d thee striking 

on the bridge 
The savor of thy kitchen came upon me 
A little faintlier: but the wind hath 

changed : 
I scent it twentyfold." And then she 

sang, 
"'O morning star' (not that tall felon 

there 
Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness 
Or some device, hast foully over- 
thrown), 
'O morning star that smilest in the 

blue, 
O star, my morning dream hath proven 

true, 
Smile sweetly, thou ! my love hath 

smiled on me.' 

" But thou begone, take counsel, and 
away, 

For hard by here is one that guards a 
ford— 

The second brother in their fool's par- 
able — 

Will pay thee all thy wages, and to 
boot. 

Care not for shame : thou art not 
knight but knave.'' 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd, 

laughingly, 
"Parables? Hear a parable of the 

knave. 
When I was kitchen-knave among the 

rest 
Fierce was the hearth, and one of my 

comates 
Own'd a rough dog, to whom he cast 

his coat, 
' Guard it,' and there was none to med- 
dle with it. 
And such a coat art thou, and thee the 

King 
Gave me to guard, and such a dog 

am I, 
To worry, and not to flee— and— knight 

or knave— 



The knave that doth thee service as 
I full knight 

I Is all as good, mesceras, as any knight 

Tov.-ard thy sister's freeing." 

" Ay, Sir Knave ! 
Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a 

knight. 
Being but knave, I hate thee all the 

more." 

" Fair damsel, ye should worship me 
the more, 
That, being but knave, I throw thine 
enemies." 

" Ay, ay," she said, " but thou shalt 
meet thy match." 

So when they touch'd the second 

riverloop, 
Huge on a huge red horse, and all in 

mail 
Burnish'd to blinding, shone the Noon- 
day Sun 
Beyond a raging shallow. As if the 

flower. 
That blows a globe of after arrowlets, 
Ten thousand-fold had grown, flash'd 

the fierce shield. 
All sun ; and Gareth's eyes had flying 

blots 
Before them when he turn'd from 

watching him. 
He from beyond the roaring shallow 

roar'd, 
" What doest thou, brother, in my 

marches here .'* " 
And she athwart the shallow shrill'd 

again, 
" Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's 

hall 
Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath 

his arms." 
" Ugh ! " cried the Sun, and vizoring 

up a red 
And cipher face of rounded foolishT 

ness, 
Push'd horse across the foamings oi 

the ford, 
Whom Gareth met midstream ; no 

room was there 



12 



GARETH AXD LYNETJ-E. 



For lance or tourney-skill : four strokes 

they struck 
With sword, and these were mighty ; 

the new knight 
J lad fear he might be shamed; but as 

the Sun 
1 leaved up a ponderous arm to strike 

the fifth, 
The hoof of his horse slipt in the 

stream, the stream 



" What knowest thou of flowers, ex- 
cept, belike, 

To garnish meats with ? hath not our 
good King 

Who lent me thee, the flower of kit- 
chendom, 

A foolish love for flowers ? what stick 
ye round 

The pasty ? wherewithal deck the 
boar's head? 



Descended, and the Sun was wath'd Flowers? nay, the boar hath rose 



away. 

Then Gareth laid his lance athwart 
the ford ; 



So drew him home; but he that would \ q birds, that warble as the day 



not fight 

As being all bone-battered on the rock. 
Yielded; and Gareth sent him to the 

King. [thee. 

" Myself when I return will plead for 
Lead, and I follow." Quietly she led. 
" Hath not the good wind, damsel, 

changed again ? " 
" Nay, not a point : nor art thou victor 

here. [ford ; 

There lies a ridge of slate across the 
His horse thereon stumbled — ay, for I 

saw it. 

" * O Sun ' (not this strong fool whom 

thou. Sir Knave, 
Hast overthrown thro' mere unhap- 

piness), 
•O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or 

pain, 
O moon, that la3'est all to sleep again, 
Shine sweetly : twice my love hath 

smiled on me.' 

" What knowest thou of lovesong or 

of love ? 
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly 

born, 
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, 

perchance, - 

" ' O dewy flowers that open to the 

sun, 
J dewy flowers that close when day is 

done, 
Blow sweetly ; twice my love hath 

smiled on me.* 



maries and bay. 

O birds, that warble to the morn- 
ing sky, 

goes 

by, 

Sing sweetly : twice my love hath 
smiled on me.' 

" What knowest thou of birds, lark, 

mavis, merle, 
Linnet? what dream ye when they 

utter forth 
May-music growing with the growing 

light. 
Their sweet sun-worship ? these be for 

the snare 
(So runs thy fancy) these be for the 

spit, 
Larding and basting. See thou have 

not now 
Larded thy last, except thou turn and 

fly. 
There stands the third fool of their 

allegory." 

For there beyond a bridge of treble 
bow, 

All in a rose-red from the west, and 
all 

Naked it .seem'd, and glowing in the 
broad 

Deep-dimpled current underneath., the 
knight, 

That named himself the Star of Even- 
ing, stood. 

And Gareth, '' \Vherefore waits the 
madman there 
Naked in open dayshine ? *' " Nay," 
she cried 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



5^3 



" Not naked, only wrapt in harden'd 

skins 
That fit liim lilce his own; and so ye 

cleave 
His armor off him, these will turn the 

blade." 

Then the third brother shouted o'er 

the bridge, 
" O brother-star, why shine ye here so 

low ? 
Thy ward is higher up : but have ye 

slain 
The damsel's champion?" and the 

damsel cried, 

"No star of thine, but shot from 

Arthur's heaven 
With all disaster unto thine and thee ! 
For both thy younger brethren have 

gone down 
Before this youth ; and so wilt thou, 

Sir Star;' 
Art thou not old ? " 

" Old, damsel, old and hard, j 
Old, with the might and breath of I 

twenty boys," j 

Said Gerath. " Old, and over-bold in 

brag ! 
But that same strength which threw 

the Morning-Star 
Can throw the Evening." 

Then that other blew 

A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 

" Approach and arm me ! " With slow 
steps from out 

An old storm-beaten, russet, many- 
stain'd 

Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came. 

And arm'd him in old arms, and 
brought a helm 

With but a drying evergreen for crest, 

And gave a shield whereon the Star of 
Even 

Half-tarnish'd and half-bright, his em- 
blem, shone. 

But when it glitter'd o'er the saddle- 
bow, 

They madly hurl'd together on the 
bridge, 



And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, 

drew, 
There met him drawn, and overthrew 

him again, 
But up like fire he started: and as oft 
As Gareth brought him grovelling on 

his knees, 
So many a time he vaulted up again ; 
Till Gareth panted hard, and his great 

heart, 
Foredooming all his trouble was in 

vain, 
Labor'd within him, for he seem'd ag 

one 
That all in later, sadder age begins 
To war against ill uses of a life. 
But these from all his life arise, and 

cry, 
" Thou hast made us lords, and canst 

not put us down !" 
He half despairs ; so Gareth seem'd 

to strike 
Vainly, the damsel clamoring all the 

while, 
" Well done, knave-knight, A'.ell- 

stricken, O good knight-knave — 
O knave, as noble as any cf all the 

knights — 
Shame me not, shame me not. I have 

prophesied — 
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table 

Round — 
His arms are old, he trusts the harden'd 

skin — 
Strike — strike — the wind will never 

change again." 
And Gareth hearing ever strongHer 

smote, 
And hew'd great pieces of his armor 

off him, 
But lash'd in vain against the harden'd 

skin, [more 

And could not wholly bring him under, 
Thau loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge 

on ridge, 
The buoy that rides at sea, and dips 

and springs 
Forever ; till at length Sir Gareth's 

brand 
C lash'd his, and brake it utterly to the 

hilt. 



514 



GARE TH A ND L YNE TTE. 



"I have thee now;" but forth that 
other sprang, 

And, all unknightlikc, writhed his wiry 
arms 

Around him, till he felt, despite his 
mail, 

Strangled, but straining ev'n his utter- 
most 

Cast, and so hurl'd him headlong o'er 
the bridge 

Down to the river, sink or swim, and 
cried, 

'• Lead, and I follow." 

But the damsel said, 
" I lead no longer ; ride thou at my 

side ; 
Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen- 
knaves. 

" ' O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy 

plain, 
O rainbow with three colors after rain, 
Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath 

smiled on me.' 

*' Sir, — and good faith, I fain had 

added — knight. 
But that I heard thee call thyself a 

knave, — 
Shamed am I that I so rebuked, re- 
viled, 
Missaid thee ; noble I am ; and thought 

the King 
Scorn'd me and mine ; and now thy 

pardon, friend. 
For thou hast ever answer'd courte- 

onslv, 
And wholly bold thou art, and meek 

withal 
As any of Arthur's best, but, being 

knave. 
Hast mazed my wit ; I marvel what 

thou art." 

*' Damsel," he said, " ye be not all to 
blame, 

Saving that ye mistrusted our good 
King 

Would handle scorn, or yield thee, ask- 
ing, one 



Not fit to cope thy quest. Ye said 

your say ; 
Mine answer was my deed. Good 

sooth ! I hold 
He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, 

nor meet 
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who 

lets 
His heart be stirr'd with any foolish 

heat 
At any gentle damsel's wayardness. 
Shamed .-* care not ! thy foul sayings 

fought for me : 
And seeing now my words are fair, 

methinks. 
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, 

his great self. 
Hath force to quell me." 

Nigh upon that hour 
When the lone hern forgets his melan- 
choly. 
Lets down his other leg, -and stretch- 
ing dreams 
Of goodly supper in the distant pool. 
Then turn'd the noble damsel smiling 

at him, 
And told him of a cavern hard at hand, 
Where bread and baken meats and 

good red wine 
Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors 
Had sent her coming champion, waited 
him. 

Anon they past a narrow comb 

wherein 
Were slabs of rock with figures, knights 

on horse 
Sculptured, and deckt in slowly waning 

hues. 
" Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once 

was here. 
Whose holy hand hath fashion'd on 

the rock 
The war of Time against the soul of 

man. 
And* yon four fools have suck'd their 

allegory 
From these damp walls, and taken but 

the form. 
Know ye not these ? " and Gareth 

lookt and read — 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



5^5 



In letters like to those the vexillary 
Hath left crag-carven o'er the stream- 
ing Gelt — 
"Phosphorus," then "Meridies"— 

" Hesperus" — 
" Nox " — " Mors," beneath five 

figures, armed men, 
Slab after slab, their faces forward 

all, 
And running down the Soul, a Shape 

that fled 
With broken wings, torn raiment and 

loose hair. 
For help and shelter to the hermit's 

cave. 
"Follow the faces, and we find it. 

Look, 
Who comes behind ? " 

For one — delay'd at first 
Thro' helping back the dislocated Kay 
To Camelot, then by what thereafter 

chanced, 
The damsel's headlong error thro' the 

wood — 
Sir Lancelot having swum the river- 
loops — 
His blue shield-lions cover'd— softly 

drew [star 

Behind the twain, and when he saw the 
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, 

cried, 
" Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for 

my friend." 
And Gareth crying prick'd against the 

cry; 
But when they closed — in a moment — 

at one touch 
Of that skill'd spear, the wonder of the 

world — 
Went sliding down so easily, and fell, 
That when he found the grass within 

his hands 
He laugh'd ; the laughter jarr'd upon 

Lynette : 
Harshly she ask'd him, 'Shamed and 

overthrown, 
And tumbled back into the kitchen- 
knave. 
Why laugh ye ?*that ye blew your boast 

in vain ? " 



" Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the 

son 
Of old King Lot and good Queen Bel- 

licent. 
And vict(;r of the bridges and the ford, 
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown 

bv whom 
I kno>v not, all thro' mere unhappi- 

ness — 
Device and sorcery and unhappiness — 
Out, sword ; we are thrown ! " and 

Lancelot answered, " Prince, 
O Gareth — thro' the mere unhappiness 
Of one who came to help thee not to 

harm, 
Lancelot, all and as glad to find thee 

whole. 
As on the day when Arthur knighted 

him." 

Then Gareth, " Thou— Lancelot I— 
thine the hand 

That threw me .-* And some chance to 
mar the boast 

Thy brethren of thee make — which 
could not chance — 

Had sent thee down before a lesser 
spear 

Shamed had I been and sad — O Lan- 
celot — thou ! " 

Whereat the maiden, petulant, 

" Lancelot, 
Why came ye not, when call'd i and 

wherefore now 
Come ye, not call'd 1 I gloried in my 

knave. 
Who being still rebuked, would 

answer still 
Courteous as any knight — but now, if 

knight, 
The marvel dies, and leaves me fool'd 

and trick'd. 
And only wondering wherefore play'd 

upon : 
And doubtful whether I and mine be 

scorn'd. 
Where should be truth if not in 

Arthur's hall, 
In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, 

prince and fool, 
I hate thee and forever." 



Si<5 



&ARETH AND LYNETTK. 



And Lancelot said, 
" Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth I knight 

art thou 
To the Kind's best wish. O damsel, 

be ye wise 
To cairhim shamed, who is but over- 
thrown ? 
Thrown have I been, nor once, but 

many a time. 
Victor from vanquish'd issues at the 

last, 
And overthrower from being over- 
thrown. 
With sword we have not striven ; and 

thy good horse 
And thou art weary ; yet not less I felt 
Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance 

of thine. 
Tell hast thou done : for all the stream 

is freed. 
And thou hast wreak'd his justice on 

his foes, 
And when reviled, hast answer'd 

graciously, 
And makest merry, when overthrown. 

Prince, Knight, 
Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our 

Table Round ! " 

And then when turning to Lynette 

he told 
The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said, 
" Ay well — ay well — for worse than 

being fool'd 
Of others, is to fool one's self. A 

cave, 
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats 

and drinks 
And forage for the horse, and flint for 

fire. 
But all about it flies a honeysuckle. 
Seek, till we find." And when they 

sought and found. 
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his 

life 
Past into sleep ; on whom the maiden 

gazed. 
" Sound sleep be thine ! sound cause 

to sleep hast thou. 
Wake lusty ! Seem I not as tender to 

him 



As any mother ? Ay, but such a one 

As all day long hath rated at her child, 

And vext his day, but blesses him 
asleep — 

Good lord, how sweetly smells the 
honeysuckle 

\\\ the hush'd night, as if the world 
were one 

Of utter peace, and love, and gentle- 
ness ! 

O Lancelot, Lancelot " — and she clapt 
her hands — 

" Full merry am I to find my goodly 
knave 

Is knight and noble. See now, sworn 
have I, 

Else yon black felon had not let me 
pass. 

To bring thee back to do the battle 
with him. 

Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee 
first : 

Who doubts thee victor ? so will my 
knight-knave 

Miss the full cower of this accomplish- 
ment." 



Said Lancelot, 
ye name, 



Peradventure he 



May know my shield. 'Let Gareth, an 
he w'ill. 

Change his for mine, and take my 
charger, fresh, 

Not to be spurr'd, loving the battle as 
well 

As he that rides him." " Lancelot- 
like," she said, 

" Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as 
in all." 

And Gareth, wakening, fiercely 

clutch'd the shield ; 
" Ramp, ye lance-splintering lions, on 

whom all spears 
Are rotten sticks ! ye seem agape to 

roar ! 
Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your 

lord !— 
Care not, good beasts, so well I care 

for you. 
O noble Lancelot, from my hold on 

these 



GARETir AND LYNETTE. 



517 



Streams virtue — fire — thro' one that 

will not shame 
Even the shadow of Lancelot under 

shield. 
Hence: let us go. 

Silent the silent field 

They traversed. Arthur's harp tho' 
summer-wan, 

In counter motion to the clouds, al- 
lured 

The glance of Gareth dreaming on his 
liege. 

A star shot : " Lo," said Gareth, " the 
foe falls ! " 

An owl whoopt : " Hark the victor 
pealing there ! " 

Suddenly she that rode upon his left 

Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent 
him crying, 

"Yield, yield him this again: 'tis he 
must fight : 

I curse the tongue that all thro' yester- 
day 

Reviled thee, and hath wrought on 
Lancelot now 

To lend thee horse and shield : 
wonders ye have done ; 

Miracles ye cannot : here is glory enow 

In having flung the three : I see thee 
niaim'd, 

Mangled : I swear thou canst not fling 
the fourth " 

"And wherefore, damsel.^ tell me 

all ye know. 
Ye cannot scare me ; nor rough face, 

or voice, [ery 

Brute bulk of liml), or boundless savag- 
Appall me from the quest." 

" Nay, Prince," she cried, 
" God vvot, I never look'd upon the 

face, 
Seeing he never rides abroad by day ; 
But watch'd him have I like a phantom 

pass 
Chilling the night : nor have I heard 

the voice. 
Always he made his mouthpiece of a 

page 
Who came and went, and still reported 

him 



As closing in himself the strength of 
ten. 

And when his anger tare him, massa- 
cring 

Man, woman, lad and girl — yea, the 
soft babe — 

Some hold that he hath swallow'd in- 
fant flesh. 

Monster ! O prince, I went for Lance- 
lot first. 

The quest is Lancelot's : give him back 
the shield." 

Said Gareth laughing, " An he fight 
for this, 
Belike he wins it as the better man : 
Thus — and not else ? " 

But Lancelot on him urged 
All the devisings of their chivalry 
Where one might meet a mightier than 

himself ; 
How best to manage horse, lance, 

sword and shield, 
And so fill up the gap where force 

might fail 
With skill and fineness. Instant were 

his words. 

Then Gareth, " Here he rules. I 

know but one — 
To dash against mine enemy and to 

win. [joust, 

Yet have I watch'd thee victor in the 
And seen thy way." " Heaven help 

thee," sigh'd Lynette. 

Then for a space, and under cloud 

that grew 
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, 

they rode 
In converse till she made her palfrev 

halt. 
Lifted an arm, and softly whisper'd, 

" There." 
And all the three were silent seeing, 

pitch'd 
Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, 
A huge pavilion like a mountain peak 
Sunder the glooming crimson, on the 

marge. 



5iS 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Black, with black banner, and a long 

black horn 
Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth 

graspt, 
And so, before the two could hinder 

him, 
Sent all his heart and breath thro' all 

the horn. 
I'xho'd the walls; a light twinkled; 

anon 
Came lights and lights, and once again 

he blew ; 
Whereon were hollow tramplings up 

and down [past ; 

And muffled voices heard, and shadows 
Till high above him, circled with her 

maids. 
The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, 
Beautiful among lights, and waving to 

him 
White hands, and courtesy; but when 

the Prince 
Three times had blown — after long 

hush — at last — 
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up. 
Thro' those black foldings, that which 

housed therein. 
High on a nightblack horse, in night- 
black arms. 
With white breast-bone, and barren ribs 

of Death, 
And crowu'd with fleshless laughter — 

some ten steps — 
In the half light — through the dim 

dawn — advanced 
The monster, and then paused, and 

spake no word. 

But Gareth spake and all indig- 
nantly. 

" Fool, for thou hast, men say, the 
strength of ten. 

Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God 
hath given. 

But must, to make the terror of thee 
more, 

Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries 

Of that wb.ich Life hath done with, 
and the clod. 

Less dull than thou, will hide with 
mantling flowers 



As if for pity .' " But he spake no 

word ; [swoon'd ; 

Which set the horror higher : a maiden 
The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands 

and wept. 
As doom'd to be the bride of Night 

and Death ; 
Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his 

helm ; 
x\nd ev'n Sir Lancelot thro' his warm 

blood felt 
Ice strike, and all that mark'd him 

were aghast. 

At once Sir Lancelot's charger 
fiercely neigh'd — 
At once the black horse bounded for- 
ward with him. 
Then those that did not blink the ter- 
ror, saw 
That Death was cast to ground, and 
slowly rose. 
j But with one stroke Sir Gareth split 
I the skull. [lay. 

I Half fell to right and half to left and 
Then with a stronger buffet he clove 
! the helm 

I As throughly as the' skull ; and out 
1 from this [boy 

I Issued the bright face of a blooming 
I Fresh as a flower new-born, and cry- 
i ing, " Knight, 

I Slay me not : my three brethren bade 
I me do it, 

I To make a horror all about the house, 

j And stay the world from Lady Lyonors. 

They never dream'd the passes would 

be past." 

I Answer'd Sir Gareth graciously to one 

I Not many a moon his younger, " My 

! fair child. 

What madness made thee challenge 

the chief knight 
Of Arthur's hall.?" "Fair Sir, they 

bade me do it. 
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the 

King's friend. 
They hoped to slay him somewhere on 

the stream. 
They never dream'd the passes could 
be past." 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



5^9 



Then sprang the happier day from ; And horrors only prov'n a blooming 

under-ground ; j boy. [the quest 

And Lady Lyonors and her house, | So large mirth lived, and Gareth won 

with dance 



And revel and song, made merrv over 

Death, 
As being after all their foolish fears 



And he that told the tale in older 
times 
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, 
But he, that told it later, says Lynettc. 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in i And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, 

his moods brought 

Had made mock-knight of Arthur's , A maiden babe ; which Arthur pitying 

Table Round, took, 

At Camelot, high above the yellowing Then gave it to his Queen to rear : the 

woods, Queen 

Danced like a wither'd leaf before the ' But coldly acquiescing, in her white 



Hall. 
And toward him from the Hall, with 

harp in hand. 
And from the crown thereof a carcanet 
Of ruby swaying to and fro. the prize 
Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, 
Came Tristram, saving, "'Why skip ye 

so, Sir Fool .^ '' 



For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding- 



arms 
Received, and after loved it tenderh', 
And named it Nestling; so forgot her- 
self 
A moment, and her cares; till that 

young life 
Being smitten in mid-heaven with mor- 
tal cold 
Past from her; and in time the car- 
canet 
once Vext her v/ith plaintive memories of 

Far down beneath a winding wall of the child : 

rock So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, 

Heard a child wail. A stump of oak ''Take thou the jewels of this dead in- 
half-dead, ! nocence, 
From roots like some black coil of And make them, all thou wilt, a tour- 

carven snakes ! ney-prize." 

Clutched at the crag, and started thro' ' 

midair I To whom the King, '•' Peace to thine 

Bearing an eagle's nest : and thro' the ■ eagle-borne 

tree Dead nestling, and this honor after 

Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the ; death, [I muse 

wind ^ ! Following thy will ! but, O my Queen, 

Pierced ever a child's cry : and crag I Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or 

and tree j zone. 

Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous Those diamonds that I rescued from 

nest, j the tarn, 

This ruby necklace thrice around her | And Lancelot won, methought, for thee 
neck, ' to wear." 



520 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



" Would rather ye had let them fall," 
she cried, 

" Plunge and be lost— ill-fated as they 
were, 

A bitterness to me ! — ye look amazed; 

Not knowing they were lost as soon as 
given — 

Slid from my hands, when I was lean- 
ing out 
\bove the river — that unhappy child 

Past in her barge : but rosier luck will 

go 

With these rich jewels, seeing that 
they came 

Not from the skeleton of a brother- 
slayer, 

But the sweet body of a maiden babe. 

Perchance — who knows ? — the purest 
of thy knights 

May win them for the purest of my 
maids." 

She ended, and the cry of a great 

jousts 
With trumpet-blowings ran on all the 

ways 
From Camelot in among the faded 

fields 
To furthest towers ; and everywhere 

the knights 
Arm'd for a day of glory before the 

King. 

But on the hither side of that loud 
morn 

Into the hall stagger'd, his visage 
ribb'd 

From ear to ear with dog-whip weals, 
his nose 

I'ridge-broken, one eye out, and one 
hand off, 

/vnd one with shatter'd fingers dang- 
ling lame, 

A churl, to whom indignantlv the 
King, 

"My churl, for whom Christ died, 
what evil beast 

llath drawn his claws athwart thy 
face 'i or fiend .'' 

Man was it who marr'd Heaven's im- 
age m thee thus ? " 



Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of 

splinter'd teeth, 
Yet strangers to the tongue, and with 

blunt stump 
Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air said the 

maim'd churl, 

" He took them and he drave them 

to his tower — 
Some hold he was a table-knight of 

thine — 
A hundred goodly ones — the P.ed 

Knight, he — 
Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red 

Knight 
Brake in upon me and drave them to 

his tower; 
And when I called upon lliy name as 

one 
That does right by gentle and by churl, 
Maim'd me and maul'd, and would out- 
right have slain, 
Save that he sware me to a message, 

saying — 
' Tell thou the King and all his liars, 

that I 
Have founded my Round Table in the 

North, 
And whatsoever his own knights have 

sworn 
My knights have sworn the counter to 

it — and say 
My tow^cr is full of harlots, like his 

court. 
But mine are worthier, seeing they 

profess 
To be none other tlian themselves — 

and say 
My knights are all adulterers like his 

own, 
But mine are truer, seeing they pro- 
fess 
To be none other ; and say his hour is 

come, 
The heathen arc upon him, his long 

lance 
Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.' " 

Tlien Arthur tnrn'd to Kay the sen- 
eschal, 
" Take thou my churl, and tend him 
curiouslv 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



521 



Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be 

whole. 
The heathen — but that ever-climbing 

wave, 
Hurl'd back again so often in enr^pty 

foam. 
Hath lain for years at rest — and rene- 
gades, 
Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, 

whom 
The wholesome realm is purged of 

otherwhere, — 
Friends, thro' your manhood and your 

fealty, — now 
Make their last head like Satan in the 

North. 
My younger knights, new-made, in 

whom your flower 
Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, 
Move with me toward their quelling, 

v.^hich achieved, 
The loneliest ways are safe from shore 

to shore. 
But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my 

place 
Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate tlie 

field: 
For wherefore shouldst thou care to 

mingle with it, 
Only to yield my Queen her own 

again ? 
Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent : is it 

well ? " 

Thereto Sir Lancelot answei^d, •' It 

is well : 
Vet better if the King abide, and leave 
The leading of his younger knights to 

me. 
Klse. for the King has will'd it, it is 

well." 

Then Arthur rose and Lancelot fol- 

low'd him. 
And while they stood without the 

doors, the King 
Turn'd to him saving, " Is it then so 

well > 
Or m.ine the blame that oft I seem as 

he 
Of whom was written, 'a sound is in 

his ears ' — 



The foot that loiters, bidden go, — the 
glance 

That only seems half-loyal to com- 
mand, — 

A manner somewhat fall'n from rev- 
! erenoe — 

Or have I dream'd the bearing of our 
[ knights 

I Tells of a manhood ever less and 
I lower } 

\ Or whence the fear lest this my realm, 
j uprear'd. 

By noble deeds at one with noble 

i VOV.'S, 

; From flat confusion and brute vio- 
I lences, 

j Reel back into the beast, and be no 
1 more 1 " 

He spoke, and taking all his younger 
! knights, 

Down the slope city rode, and sharply 

turn'd 
North by the gate. In her high bower 

the Queen, 
Working a tapestry, lifted up her 

head. 
Watched her lord pass, and knew not 

that she sigh'd. 
Then ran across her memory the strange 

rhyme 
Of bygone Merlin, " Where is he who 

knows ? 
From the great deep to the great deep 

he goes." 

But when the morning of a tourna- 
ment. 

By these in earnest those in mockery 
cali'd 

The Tournament of the Dead Inno- 
cence, 

Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lance- 
lot, 

Round whose sick head all night, like 
birds of prey, 

The words of Arthur flying shriek 'd, 
arose. 

And down a streetway hung with folds 
of pure 

White samite, and by fountains running 
wine. 



522 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Where children sat in white with cups 

of gold, 
Moved'^to the lists, and there, with 

slow sad steps 
Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd 

chair. 

He glanced and saw the stately' gal- 
leries, 

Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of 
their Queen 

White-robed in honor of the stainless 
child, 

iVnd some with scattcr'd jewels, like a 
bank 

Of maiden snow mingled with sparks 
of fire. 

He lookt but once, and veil'd his eyes 
again. 

The sudden trumpet sounded as in a 

dream 
To ears but half-awaked, then one low 

roll 
Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts be- 
gan : 
And ever the wind blew, and yellowing 

leaf 
And gloom and gleam, and shower and 

shorn plume 
Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as 

one 
Who sits and gazes on a faded fire. 
When all the goodlier guests are past 

away. 
Sat their great umpire, looking o'er 

the lists. 
He saw the laws that ruled the tourna- 
ment 
Broken, but spake not ; once, a knight 

cast down 
Before his throne of arbitration cursed 
The dead babe and the follies of the 

King ; 
And once the laces of a helmet 

crack'd, 
And show'd him, like a vermin in its 

hole, 
Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard 
The voice that billow'd round the bar- 
riers roar 



An ocean-sounding welcome to one 

knight, 
But newly enter'd, taller than the rest, 
And armor'd all in forest green, where- 
on 
There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, 
And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, 
With ever-scattering beriies, and on j 

shield I 

A spear, a harp, a bugle — Tristram — ' 

late 
From overseas in Brittany return'd, 
And marriage with a princess of that 

realm, 
Isolt the White— Sir Tristram of the 

Woods— 
Whom Lancelot knew, had held some- 
time with pain 
His own against him, and now yearn'd 

to shake 
The burthen off his heart in one full 

shock 
With Tristram ev'n to death : his 

strong hands gript 
And dinted the gilt dragons right and 

left. 
Until he groan'd for wrath — so many 

of those. 
That ware their ladies' colors on the 

casque, 
Drew from before Sir Tristram to the 

bounds. 
And there with gibes and flickering 

mockeries 
Stood, while he mutter'd, " Craven 

crests I O shame ! 
What faith have these iji whom they 

sware.to love ? 
The glory of our Round Table is no 

more." 

So Tristram won, and Lancelot gav^, 

the gems. 
Not speaking other word than " Hast 

thou won ? 
Art thou the purest, brother ? See, the 

hand 
Wherewith thou takest is red!" to 

whom 
Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's 

languorous mood. 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



523 



Made answer, ** Ay, but wherefore toss 

me this 
Like a dry bone cast to some hungry 

hound ? 
Let me thy fair Queen's fantasy. 

Strength of heart 
And might of hmb, but mainly use and 

skill, [King. 

Are winners in this pastime of our 
My hand— belike the lance hath dript 

upon it — 
No blood of mine, I trow ; but O chief 

knight, 
Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, 
Great brother, thou nor I have made 

the world; 
Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in 

mine," 

And Tristram round the gallery 

made his horse 
L'aracole ; then bow'd his homage, 

bluntly saying, 
" Fair damsels, each to him who wor- 
ships each 
Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, be- 

• hold 
This day my Queen of Beauty is not 

here." 
Then m.ost of these were mute, some 

anger'd, one 
Murmuring, " All courtesy is dead," 

and one, 
" The glory of our Round Table is no 

more." 

Then fell thick rain, plume droopt 
and mantle clung, [day 

And pettish cries awoke, and the wan 

Went glooming down in wet and weari- 
ness ; 

Ikit luidcr her black brows a swarthy 
dame 

Laugh L shrilly, crying *' Praise the 
patient saints. 

Our one white day of Innocence hath 
past, 

Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. 
So be it. 

The snowdrop only, flow'ring thro' the 
year, 



Would make the world as blank as 

wintertide. 
Come — let us comfort their sad eyes, 

our Queen's 
And Lance]ot's,at this night's solemnity 
With all the kindlier colors of the 

field." 

So dame and damsel glitter'd at the 
feast 
Variously gav : for he that tells the 

tale 
Liken'd them, saying " as when an hour 

of cold 
Falls on the mountain in midsummer 

snows, 
And all the purple slopes of m.ountain 
I flowers 

! Pass under white, till the warm hour 
returns 
With veer of wind, and all are flowers 

again ; " 
So dame and damsel cast the simple 
white, 
j And glowing in all colors, the live grass 
i Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, 
j glanced 

I About the revels, and with mirth so 
loud 
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the 

Queen, 
And wroth at Tristram and the lawless 

jousts. 
Brake up their sports, then slowly to 

her bov/er 
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. 

And little Dagonet on the morrow 
morn. 
High over all the yellowing Autumn- 
tide, 
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the 
I hall. 

I Then Tristram saying. " Why skip ye 
I so, Sir Fool 'i " 

[ Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet 

replied, 
I '* Belike for lack of wiser company ; 
i Or being fool, and seeing too much wit 
I Makes the world rotten, why, belike I 
! skip 



5^4 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



To know myself the wisest knight of 

all." 
" Ay, fool," said Tristram " but 'tis 

eating dry 
To dance without a catch, a roundelay 
To dance to." Then he twangled on 

his harp, 
And while he twangled little Dagonet 

stood, 
Quiet as any water-sodden log 
Stay'd in the wandering warble of a 

brook ; 
But when the twangling ended, skipt 

again ; 
Then being ask'd, " Why skipt ye not, 

Sir Fool > " 
Made answer, " I had liefer twenty 

years 
Skip to the broken music of my brains 
Than any broken music ye can make." 
Then Aristram, waiting for the quip to 

come, [fool ? " 

" Good now, what music have I broken, 
And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, 

the king's ; 
For when thou playest that air with 

Queen Isolt, 
Thou makest broken music with thy 

bride, [tany — 

Her daintier namesake down in Brit- 
And so thou breakest Arthur's music 

too." 
" Save for that broken music in thy 

brains, 
Sir Fool," said Aristram, " I would 

break thy head. 
Fool, I came late, the heathen wars 

were o'er^ 
The life had flown, we sware but by the 

shell— 
T am but a fool to reason with a fool. 
Come, thou art crabb'd and sour : but 

lean me down, 
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' 

ears, 
And hearken if my music be not true, 

" ' Free love — free field — we love but 
while we may : 
The woods arc hush'd, their music is 
no more ; 



The leaf is dead, the yearning past 

away : 
Nev/ leaf, new life — the days of frost 

are o'er : 
New life, new love to suit the newel 

day : 
New loves are sweet as those that went 

before : 
Free love, — free field — we love but 

while we may.' 

" Ye might have moved slov,r-meas- 

ure to my tune, 
Not stood stockstilL I made it in the 

woods, 
And found it ring as true as tested 

gold." 

But Dagonet with one foot poised in 

his hand, 
" Friend, did ye mark that fountain 

yesterday 
Made to run wine ? — but this had run 

itself 
All out like a long life to a sour end — 
And them that round it sat with golden 

cups 
To hand the wine to whomsoever 

came — 
The twelve small damosels v/hite as 

Innocence, 
In honor of poor Innocence the babe, 
Who left the gems which Innocence 

the Queen 
Lent to the King, and Innocence the 

King 
Gave for a prize — and one of those 

white slips [ 'uc, 

Handed her cup and piped, the pretty 
' Drink, drink. Sir Fool,' and there- 
upon I drank. 
Spat— pish— the cup was gold, the 

draught was mud." 

And Tristram, " Was it muddier than 

thy gibes ? 
Is all the laughter gone dead out of 

thee .?— 
Not marking how the knighthood mock 

thee, fool — 
' Fear God : honor tlie king — his one 

true knight — 



THE LAST TOURiVAMENT. 



525 



Sole follower of the vows' — for here 

be they 
Who knew thee swine enow before I 
; came, 

{Smuttier than blasted grain : but when 

the King 
Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot 

up 
It frighted all free fool from out thy 

heart ; 
Which left thee less than fool, and less 

than swine, 
A naked aught — yet swhie I hold thee 

still, 
For I have flung thee pearls, and find 

thee swine." 



And little Dagonet mincing with his 
^ feet, 

" Knight, an ye fling those rubies round 
my neck 

In lieu of hers, I '11 hold thou hast 
some touch 

Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. 

Swine "i I have wallow'd, '1 have 
wash'd — the world 

Is flesh and shadow — I have had my 
day. 

The dirty nurse, E.xperience, in her 
kind 

Hath foul'd me — an I wallow'd, then I 
wash'd — 

I have had my day and my philoso- 
phies — 

And thank the Lord I am King Ar- 
thur's fool. 

Swine, say ye } swine, goats, asses, 
rams and geese 

Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, 
who thrumm'd 

On such a wire as musically as thou 

Some such fine song — but never a king's 
fool." 



And Tristram, " Then were swine, 
goats, asses, geese 
The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard 
Had such a mastery of his mystery 
That he could harp his wife up out of 
Hell." 



The Dagonet, turning on the ball of 

his foot, 
"And whither harp'st thou thine ? down ! 

and thyself 
Down ! and' two more : a helpful harper 

thou, 
That harpest downward ! Dost thou 

know the star 
We call the harp of Arthur up in 

heaven ? " 

And Tristram, " Ay, Sir Fool, for 

when our King 
Was victor wellnigh day by da}', the 

knights. 
Glorying in each new glory, set his 

name 
High on all hills, and in the signs of 

heaven." 

And Dagonet answer'd, " Ay, and 

when the land 
Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set 

yourself 
To babble about him, all to show your 

wit — 
And whether he were king by courtesy, 
Or king by right — and so went harping 

down 
The black king's highway, got so far, 

and grew 
So witty, that ye play'd at ducks and 

drake 
With Arthur's vows on the great lake 

of fire. 
Tuv.'hoo ! do ye see it ? do ye see the 

star ? " 
"Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in 

open day." 
And Dagonet, " Nay, nor will : I see it 

and hear. 
It makes a silent music up in heaven, 
And I, and Arthur and the angels 

hear, 
And then we skip." " Lo, fool," he 

said, " ye talk 
Fool's treason : is the king thy brother 

fool ? " 
Then little Dagonet clapt his hands 

and shrill'd, 
" Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of 

fools I 



526 



THE LAST TOVRNAMENT. 



Conceits himself as God tliat he can 
make 

Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, 
milk 

From burning spurge, honey from hor- 
net-combs, 

And men from beasts. — Long live the 
king of fools !" 

And down the city Dagonet danced 

away. 
But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues 
And solitary passes of the wood 
Rode Tristram toward Lyonesse and 

the west. 
Before him tied the face of Queen 

Isolt 
With ruby-circled neck, but evermore 
Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood 
Made dull his inner, keen liis outer 

eye 
For all that walk'd, or crept, or 

perched, or flew. 
Anon the face, as, when a gust hath 

blown, 
UnrufBing waters re-collect the shape 
Of one that in them sees himself, re- 

turn'd ; 
But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, 
Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again. 

So on for all that day from lawn to 

lawn 
Thro' many a league-long bower he 

rode. At length 
A lodge of intertwisted beechen- 

boughs 
Furze-cramm'd, and bracken -roof t, the 

which himself 
Built for a summer day with Queen 

Isolt 
Against a shower, dark'in the golden 

grove 
Appearing, sent his fancy back to 

where 
She lived a moon in that low lodge 

with him : 
Till Mark her lord had past, the Cor- 
nish king, 
With six or seven, when Tristram was 

away, 



And snatch'd her thence ; yet dread- 
ing worse than shame 

Ilcr warrior Tristram spake not an}- 
word, 

But bode his hour, devising wretched- 
ness. 

>And now that desert lodge to Tris- 
tram lookt 

So sweet, that, halting, in he past, and 
sank 

Down on a drift of foliage random- 
blown ; 

But could not rest for musing how to 
smooth 

And sleek his marriage over to the 
Queen. 

Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all 

The tonguesters of the court she had 
not heard. 

But then what folly had sent him over- 
seas 

After she left him lonely here "i a 
name } 

Was it the name of one in Brittany, 

Isolt, the daughter of the King .? 
"Isolt 

Of the white hands " they calTd her : 
the sweet name 

Allured him first, and then the maid 
herself. 

Who served him well with those white 
hands of hers, 

And loved him well, until himself had 
thought 

He loved her also, wedded easily, 

]>ut left her all as easily, and return'd. 

The black-blue Irish hair and Irish 
eyes 

Had drawn him home — what marvel "i 
then he laid 

His brows upon the drifted leaf and 
dream'd. 

He seem'd to pace the strand of 

Brittany 
Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, 
And show'd them both the ruby-chain, 

and both 
Began to struggle for it, till his Queen 
Graspt it so hard, that all her hand 

was red. 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



^-i 



Then cried the Breton, " Look, her 

hand is red ! 
These be no rubies, this is frozen 

blood, 
And melts within her hand — her hand 

is hot 
With ill desires, but this I gave thee, 

look, 
Is all as cool and white as any flower." 
Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and 

then 
A whimpering of the spirit of the 

child, 
Because the twain had spoil'd her car- 

canet. 

He dream'd ; but Arthur with a 

hundred spears 
Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, 
And many a glancing plash and sal- 

lowy isle, 
The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty 

marsh 
Glared on a huge machicolated tower 
That stood with open doors, whereout 

was roU'd 
A roar of riot, as from men secure 
Amid their marshes, ruffians at their 

ease 
Among their harlot-brides, an evil 

song. 
" Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, 

for there, 
High on a grim dead tree before the 

tower, 
A goodly brother of The Table Round 
Swung by the neck : and on the 

boughs a shield 
Showing a shower of blood in a field 

noir, 
And therebeside a horn, inflamed the 

knights 
At that dishonor done the gilded spur, 
Till each would clash the shield, and 

blow the horn. 
But Arthur waved them back : alone 

he rode 
Then at the dry harsh roar of the 

great horn 
That sent the face of all the marsh 

aloft 



An ever upward-rushing storm and 

cloud 
Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight 

heard, and all, 
Even to tipmost lance and topmost 

helm, 
In blood-red armor sallying, howl'd to 

the King, 

"The teeth of Hell flay bare and 

gnash thee flat ! — 
Lo ! art thou not that eunuch-hearted 

King 
Who fain had dipt free manhood from 

the world — 
The woman-worshipper ? Yea, God's 

curse, and I ! 
Slain was the brother of my paramour 
By a knight of thine, and I that heard 

her whine 
And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, 
Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists 

in hell, 
And stings itself to everlasting death, 
To hang whatever knight of thine I 

fought 
And tumbled. Art thou King ,? — Look 

to thy life ! " 

He ended : Arthur knew the voice ; 

the face 
Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the 

name 
Went wandering somewhere darkling 

in his mind. 
And Arthur deign'd not use of vvord or 

sword, 
But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd 

from horse 
To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, 
Down from the causeway heavily to the 

swamp 
Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching 

wave 
Heard in dead night along that table- 
shore 
Drops flat, and after the great waters 

break 
Whitening for half a league, and thin 

themselves 
Far over sands marbled with mooii 

and cloud, 



528 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



From less and less to nothing ; thus he 
fell 

Head-heavy, while the knights, who 
watch'd him, roar'd 

And shouted and leapt down upon the 
fall'n ; 

There trampled out his face from be- 
ing known. 

And sank his head in mire, and slimed 
themselves: 

Nor heard the King for their own cries, 
but sprang 

Thro' open doors, and swording right 
and left 

Men, women, on their sodden faces, 
hurl'd 

The tables over and the wines, and 
slew 

Till all the rafters rang with woman- 
yells. 

And all the pavement stream'd with 
massacre : 

Then, yell with yell echoing, they fired 
the tower, 

Which half that autumn night, like the 
live North, 

Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor, 

Made all above it, and a hundred 
meres 

About it, as the water Moab saw 

Come round by the East, and out be- 
yond them flush'd 

The long low dune, and lazy-plunging 
sea. 

So all the ways were safe from shore 
to shore. 
But in the heart of Arthur pain was 
lord. 

Then out of Tristram waking the 

red dream 
Fled with a shout, and that low lodge 

re turn 'd. 
Mid-forest, and the wind among the 

boughs. 
lie Vv'histled his good warhorse left to 

graze 
Among the forest greens, vaulted upon 

him. 
And rode beneath an ever-showering 

leaf, 



Till one lone woman, weeping near a 

cross, 
Stay'd him, " Why weep ye ? " " Lord," 

she said, " my man 
Hath left me or is dead ; " whereon he 

thought — 
" What an she hate me now ? I would 

not this. 
What an she love me still .<* I would 

not that. 
I know not what I would " — but said 

to her, — 
" Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate 

return. 
He find thy favor changed and love 

thee not " — 
Then pressing day by day thro' Lyon- 

esse 
Last in a rocky hollow, belling, heard 
The hounds of Mark, and felt the 

goodly hounds 
Yelp at his heart, but, turning, past 

and gain'd 
TintagiJ, half in sea, and high on land, 
A crown of towers. 

Down in a casement sat, 

A low sea-sunset glorying round her 
hair 

And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the 
Queen. 

And when she heard the feet of Tris- 
tram grind 

The spiring stone that scaled about 
her tower, 

Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, 
and there 

Belted his body with her white em- 
brace, 

Crying aloud, "Not Mark — not Mark, 
my soul ! | he : 

The footstep flutter'd me at first : not 

Catlike thro' his own castle steals my 
Mark, 

But warrior-wise thou stridest through 
his halls 

Who hates thee, as I him — ev*n to the 
death. 

My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark 

Quicken within me, and knew that thou 
v.crt nigh." 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



529 



To whom Sir Tristram smiling, " I am 

here. 
Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not 

thine." 

And drawing somewhat backward 

she replied, 
" Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n 

his own, 
But save for dread of thee had beaten 

me, 
Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me 

somehow — Mark ? 
What rights are his that dare not 

strike for them ? 
Not lift a hand — not, tho' he found me 

thus ! 
But hearken, have ye met him ? hence 

he went 
To-day for three days' hunting — as he 

said — 
And so returns belike within an hour. 
Mark's way, my soul ! — but eat not 

thou with him. 
Because he hates thee even more than 

fears ; 
Nor drink: and when thou passest any 

wood 
Close visor, lest an arrow from the 

bush 
Should leave me all alone with Mark 

and hell. 
My God, the measure of mv hate for 

Mark 
Is as the measure of my love for thee." 

So, pluck'd one way by hate and one 

by love, 
Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and 

spake 
To Tristram, as he knelt before her, 

saying, 
" O hunter, and O blower of the horn, 
Harpsr, and thou hast been a rover 

too, 
For, ere I mated with my shambling 

king, 
Ye twain had fallen out about the bride 
Of one — his name is out of me — the 

prize, 
If prize she were — (what marvel — she 

could see) — 

34 



Thine, -friend : and ever since my 

craven seeks 
To wreck thee villanously: but, O Sir 

Knight, 
What dame or damsel have ye kneeled 

to last ? " 

And Tristram, '• Last to my Queen 

Paramount, 
Here now to my Queen Paramount of 

love, 
And loveliness, ay, lovelier than when 

first 
Her light feet fell on our rough 

Lyonesse, 
Sailing from Ireland." 

Softly laugh'd Isolt, 
" Flatter me not, for hath not our great 

Queen 
My dole of beauty trebled 1 " and he 

said, 
" Her beauty is her beauty, and thine 

thine, [kind— 

And thine is more to me — soft, gracious. 
Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy 

lips 
Most gracious; but she, haughty, ev'n 

toliim, 
Lancelot ; for I have seen him wan 

enow 
To make one doubt if ever the great 

Queen 
Have yielded him her love." 

To whom Isolt, 

"Ah then, false hunter and false har- 
per, thou 

Who breakest thro' the scruple of my 
bond, 

Calling me thy white hind, and saying 
to me 

That Guinevere had sinned against the 
highest, 

And I — misyoked with such a want of 
man — 

That I could hardly sin against the 
lowest." 

Pie answer'd, " O mv soul, be com- 
forted ! 
If this be sweet, to sin in leading- 
strings, 



530 



THE LAST rOURNAMENT. 



II here be comfort, and if (»nrs be sin, 
( 'lownM wariiinl liad wc for the crown- 

ill}.' sin 
Tluil ni.id.- lis Ii.i|)i.v: but how yc 

l^iccl nic— fi-.u 
\\\k\ l.inll and doubt — no \v<»i(l of lli.il 

iond talc— 
Thy deep heart yearnings, thy sweet 

memories 
( If I'lisham in that year he wasaway." 

And, s.idtKnin:', on tlu- snihlin, sp.dce 

Isolt, 
" I had toiK.oll'n all in my strong joy 
In Mc Hue yiMininjAS ?— ay ! loi, 

hoiu by lioiii, 
i bic in the nevci ended afternoon, 
() sweeter than all memories of thee. 
Deeper than any yearninf;s after thee 
Seeni'd those far-rolling, westward 

sniilinn; seas, 
Walehed "froni this lower. Isolt of 

Ihitain dasliM 
before Isolt. of IJiitlanv on the strand. 
Would that liave (hillM hn bi ide kiss .-■ 

Wedded her ? 
l'"onf;hl in hei father's battles ? wonndi d 

there? 
The King was all fnlldrd with j^iale 

fulness. 
And she, mv namesake of the hands, 

that heal'd 
Thy hurt andluail with ini.utu iit and 

caress — 
Well — can 1 wish hei any hui;er wrouL; 
Than havin;', known thee ? her loo hast 

thou leit 
To pine and waste in those sweel 

memories ? 
O were 1 not my Mark's, by whom all 

men 
Are noble, 1 should hale thee nuMi- 

than love." 



And Tristram, fondhnj; her light 

hands, replied, 
"Grace, Queen, for beini; lo\id: she 

loved me well. 
T)id 1 love her ? the n.ime at least 1 

loved. 
Isoll ?— I fought his battles, for lsi)lt ! 



The ni^ht was dark ; the true star set. 

Isoll! 
The name was nder of the dark 

Isolt ? 
( ".III- not for hei! patient, .ind pr.iyer- 

ful, meek, 
r.de blooded, she will yield herself to 

Cod." 

And Isoll .indwelt d, " \'( .i, .mil why 

not I ? 
Mine is the l.ir);ei need, who am not 

meek, 
I'ale-blooded, in.iyerful. Let me tell 

thee now. 
I lere one bl.iek, nnile niidsunnner ni};ht 

I sat 
Loinly, but nnriui; on thee, wf>ndering 

where, 
Muinmiin.^ ;i li};hl son^', Iliad heard 

\\\v(' sini;. 
And one I- oi twice I spake thy n.une 

aloud. 
Then (lash'd a levin brand; and near 

me stood. 
In fuming sulphur blue and green, a 

fiend — 
Mark's way to steal bihind one in the 

d.irk— 
l'"or there was Mark : 'lie lias wedded 

her,' he said. 
Not said, but hiss'd it : then this ( rown 

of towers 
So shook to such a roar of all the .«>kv, 
That here in utter dark I swoon'cl 

aw.w, 
.And woke .i,"..un in ullei d.uk, and 

ei i»'d, 
' 1 will (K I- henre .\\\^. j;iv(" myself to 

Cod'— 
And thou well hing in ihvnew leinatf's 

arms.'' 

Then Tiisti.un, i'\ii ilallying with 
her hand, 
" May Cod be wilh thcr, sweet, when, 
oil! .md gray. 
And ]i.ist desire!" a saying that 
anger'd her. 
" ' May (lod be with thee, sweet, when 
thou art old, 



THE LASr JVURNAMRNT. 



531 



And swccl no more to mc I * I need Ilim 

lliiW. 

I'"()r wlu'ii li.id L;iii(;fl(»l. iitlciM .luvJit 

so gross 
Mv'ii to llic svviiiclicrirs iii.ilkiii in llic 

lUilSt. ? 

'I'lic grciiUT n an, llic greater conrlcsy. 
I'.iii tlioii, tino' (Vt r liarrying thy wild 

beasts — 
Save that to toii< li a harp, lill wilii a 

lanii^ 
llecoints lliee well — art giown wild 

herl thyself. |rvin 

How d..rest ihon, if lovt'r, push mc 
In fancy from thy side, and set nie l.u 
In the gray distance, half a life away, 
11(1 to be loverl no niort; ? Unsay it, 

nnswear ! 
l'l,ilU:r mc lalhcr, seeing nie so weak, 
IWoken with Mark and liate and soli- 

tiule, 
'I'hy marriage and mine own, Ih.it I 

should suck 
I,ie.s like swec-t wir.c<> : lie lo mc : I 

believe. 
Will ye not lie.'' not swe.ir, ;is IIk le ye 

kneel, 
And solenndy as when ye sware lo him, 
I'lie mart of men, onr King — My (lod, 

the power 
Was once in vows when men hclicvi fl 

the King ! 
'llicv lied not then, who suaie, .ind 

tluo' their vows 
'I'he King pievailing made his icdni : 

— I s;iy, 
Swi:ar lo mc ihon wilt love me rv'n 

when old, 
( ii ay-hail ed, and p.ist desire, and in de- 

spair," 



We run more counter to the soul tht^reof 
'I'lian h.ij we nevei sworn. I swc.ir no 

nioi c. 
I swore to the gre.il King, .md .im for- 
sworn. 
I'or once— ev'n to the heinht I liMmu'd 

him. 
' Man, is he man ;il all ?' mcilion-dil, 

when hrst 
I rode from oiu" rough I .vonesse, an<l 

behehl 
Thai victor of the T.igan lliiomd in 

h.dl — 
His hair, a sim that lay'd from olf a 

brow 
Like hillsnow high in he.iven,lhe slecd- 

blue eyes, 
The golden beard that dollied hi , lips 

with light-- 
Moreover, that wciid legend of his 

birth. 
With Merlin's mystic b.d)blc about his 

cud. 
Am.i/((l me; llr n, his fof)t was on a 

stool 
S]ia|)ed as a (liagon ; he seem'd lo me 

no mm, 
I'.yt Mi(h.u'l trampling Satan; so I 

svvaic, 
lieing ania/.ed : lint this went l)y ~tho 

vows I 
( ) ay — the wholesome madness o( an 

hour— 
'I'hey served tlieir use, Ihcii lime; loi 

every knight 
Relieved himself a grc.ilci lli.m him 

self. 
And every follower eyed him as a Gcvl ; 
Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, 
Did mightier deeds than elsevvisc ho 

had done, 
riien Tiistr.un, pacing moodily wy And so the reahn w.is m.ide ; but then 
.ind down, their vows — 

"Vows! did ye keep the vow ye made I irst mainly thro' thai sullying ol our 

to Mark ! Queen — 

More than f mine.'' Lied, vsayyc ." Nay, I'cgan to gall the knighthood, asking 

but 'learnl. 
The vow that binds too .strictly sna|is 

itself— 
My knighthood taufdit m • this — ay, 



being sn.ipt — 



whence 

\\m\ Arthur right lobind them to him- 
self ? 

Dropt down from h('-a\en ? w.ash'd up 
fiom (Jill I lie deep .^ 



532 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh 

and blood 
Of our old Kings : whence then ? a 

doubtful lord 
To bind them by inviolable vows, 
Which flesh and blood perforce would 

violate : [within 

For feel this arm of mine — the tide 
Red with free chase and heather- 

scentecl air, [pure 

Pulsing full man ; can Arthur make me 
As any maiden child ? lock up my 

tongue 
From uttering freely what I freely hear ? 
Bind me to one ? The great world 

laughs at it. 
And worldling of the world am I, and 

know 
The ptarmigan that whitens ere his 

hour 
Wooes his own end ; we are not angels 

here 
Nor shall be : vows — I am woodman of 

the woods, 
And hear the garnet-headed yafifingale 
Mock them : my soul, we love but 

while we may; 
And therefore is my love so large^for 

thee, 
Seeing it is not bounded save by love." 

Here ending, he moved toward her, 

and she said, 
"Good: an I turn'd away my love for 

thee 
To some one thrice as courteous as 

thyself— 
For courtesy wins woman all as well 
As valor may — but he that closes both 
Is perfect, he is Lancelot — taller in- 
deed. 
Rosier, and comelier, thou — but say I 

loved 
This knightliest of all knights, and cast 

thee back 
Th'me own small saw, 'We love but 

while we may,' 
W'ell then, what answer ? " 

He that while she spake, 
Mindful of what he brought to adorn 
her with, 



The jewels, had let one finger lightly 
touch 

The warm white apple of her throat, 
replied, 

"Press this a little closer, sweet, un- 
til— 

Come, I am hungcr'd and half-anger"d 
— meat, 

W^ine, wine — and I will love thee to 
the death. 

And out beyond into the dream to 
come." 

So tlien, when both were brought to 

full accord. 
She rose, and set before him all he 

wiird ; 
And after these had comforted the 

blood 
With meats and wines, and satiated 

their hearts — 
Now talking of their woodland para- 
dise. 
The deer, the dews, the fern, the 

founts, the lawns ; 
Now mocking at the much ungainli- 

ness. 
And craven shifts, and long crane legs 

of Mark— 

n Tristr: 

harp, and sang : 

"Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bend 

the brier ! 
A star in heaven, a star within the 

mere ! 
Ay, ay, O ay — a sfar was my desire, 
And one was far apart, and one was 

near : 
Ay, ay, O ay — the w inds that bow the 

grass ! 
And one was water and one star was 

fire, 
And one will ever shine and one will 

pass. 
Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that move the 

mere." 

Then in the light's last glimmer 
Tristram show'd 
And swung the ruby carcanet. She 
cried, 



TV THE queen: 



hn 



'The collar of some order, \Yhich our 

King 
Hath newly founded, all for thee, my 

soul, 
For thee, to yield thee grace beyond 

thy peers." 

*' Not so, my Queen," he said, "but 
the red fruit 

Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid- 
heaven, 

And won by Tristram as a tourney- 
prize, 

And hither brought by Tristram for 
his last 

Love-offering and peace-offering unto 
thee." 

He rose, he turn'd, and flinging 

round her neck, 
Claspt it but while he bow'd himself 

to lay 
Warm kisses in the hollow of her 

throat, 



Out of the dark, just as the lips had 

touch'd, 
Behind him rose a shadow and a 

shriek — 
"Mark's wav." '^Tid Mark, and clove 

him thro' i!.c brain. 

That night came Arthur home, and 

while he climb'd, 
All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping 

gloom, 
The stairway to the hall, and look'd 

and saw 
The great Queen's bower was dark, — 

about his feet 
A voice clung sobbing till he question'd 

it> 
" What art thou ? " and the voice 

about his feet 
Sent up an answer, sobbing, '*I am 

thy fool, 
And I shall never make thee smile 

again." 



TO THE QUEEN. 

EPILOGUE TO THE IDYLS. 



O LOYAL to the royal in thyself. 
And loyal to thy land, as this to thee — 
Bear witness, that rememberable day, 
When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the 

Prince, 
Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering 

life again 
From half-way down the shadow of the 

grave. 
Past with thee thro' thy people and 

their love, 
And London roll'd one tide of joy 

thro' all 
Her trebled millions, and loud leagues 

of man 
And welcome ! witness, too, the silent 

cry, 



The prayer of many a race and creed, 

and clime — ^ [sea 

Thunderless lightnings striking under 
From sunset and sunrise of all thy 

realm, 
And that true North, whereof we lately 

heard 
A strain to shame us •' keep you to 

yourselves ; 
So loyal is too costly ! friends — your 

love 
Is but a burden : loose the bond, and 

go." 
Is this the tone of empire .'' here the 

faith 
That made us rulers ? this, indeed, her 

voice 



534 



70 THE QUEEN, 



And meaning, whom the roar of PIou- 

goumont 
Left "mightiest of all peoples under 

heaven ? 
What shock has fool'd her since, that 

she should speak 
So feebly ? wealthier — wealthier — hour 

by hour ! 
The voice of Britain, or a sinking 

land, 
Some third-yate isle half-lost among 

her seas ? 
TJicrc rang her voice, when the full city 

peal'd 
Thee and thy Prince ! The loyal to 

their crown 
Are loyal to their own far sons, who 

love 
Our ocean-empire with her boundless 

homes 
For ever-broadening England, and her 

throne 
In our vast Orient, and one isle, one 

isle, 
That knows not her own greatness : ii." 

she knows 
And dreads it we are fall'n. But 

thou, my Queen, 
Not for itself, but thro' thy living love 
For one to whom I made it o'er his 

grave 
Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, 
New-old, and shadowing Sense at war 

with Soul 
Rather than that gray king, whose 

name, a ghost 
Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from 

mountain peak, 
And cleaves to cairn and cromlech 

still for him 
Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Mal- 

lor's one 
Touched by the adulterous finger of a 

time 



That hover'd between war and wan- 
tonness. 
And crownings and dethronements : 

take withal 
Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that 

Heaven 
Will blow the tempest in the distance 

back 
From thine and ours : for some are 

scared, who mark, 
Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm, 
Waverings of every vane with every 

wind. 
And wordy trucklings to the transient 

hour, 
And fierce or careless looseners of the 

faith, 
And Softness breeding scorn of simple 

life, 
Oi- Cowardice, the child of lust for 

gold. 
Or Labor, w'ith a groan and not a 

voice, 
Or Art, with poisonous honey storn 

from France, 
Ai\d that which knows, but ca' cful far 

itself. 
And that which knows not, ruling that 

which knows 
To its own harm : the goal of this 

great world 
Liesbeyond sight : yet — if our slcnvly- 

grown 
And crown'd Republic's crowning com- 
mon-sense, 
That saved her many times, not fail — 

their fears 
Are morning shadows huger than the 

shapes 
Th:.t cast them, not those gloomier 

which forego 
The darkness "of th .t battle in the 

West, 
Whe.e all of high and ho!y dies away. 



A WELCOME. 



535 



A WELCOME TO THE DUKE AND DUCHESS 
OF EDINBURGH. 

March, 1S74. 



The Son of him with whom we strove 
for power — 
Whose will is lord thro' all his world- 
domain — 
Who made the serf a man, and burst 
his chain — 
Has given our Prince his own Imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna._ 
And welcome, Russian flower, a 
people's pride, 
To Britain, when her flowers begin to 

blow ! 
From love to love, from home to 
home you go, 
From mother unto mother, stately 
bride, 

Marie- Alexandrovna. 



The golden news along the steppes is 
blown. 
And at thy name tlie Tartar tents 

are stirred : 
Elburz and all the Caucasus have 
heard ; 
And all the sultry palms of India 
known, 

Alexandrovna. 
The voices of our universal sea, 

On capes of Afric as on cliffs of 

Kent, 
The Maoris and that Isle of Con- 
tinent, 
And loyal pines of Canada murmur 
thee, 

Marie-Alexandrovna ! 
III. 
Fair empires branching, both, in lusty 
life !— 



Yet Haloid's Fngland fell to Nor- 
man swords : 
Yet thine own land has bow'd to 
Tartar hordes 
Since English Harold gave its throne 
a wife, 

x\lexandrovna ! 
For thrones and peoples are as waifs 
that swing. 
And float or fall, in endless ebb and 

flow; 
But who love best have best the 
grace to know 
That Love by right divine is deathless 
king, 

Marie-Alexandrovna ! 



And Love has led thee to the stranger 
land, 
Where men are bold and strongly 

say their say ; — 
See, empire upon empire smiles to- 
day. 
As thou with thv young lover hand in 
hand, 

Alexandrovna ! 
So now thy fuller life is in the West, 
Whose hand at home was gracious 

to thy poor : 
Thy name was blest within the nar- 
row door ; 
Here also, Marie, shall thy name be 
blest, 

Marie-Alexandrovna ! 



Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame 
again ? 
Or at thy coming, Princess, every- 
where^ 



;36 



THE VOICE AA-D THE PEAK. 



The blue heaven break, and some 


And peace be yours, the peace of 


diviner air 


soul in soul ! 


Breathe thro' the world and change 


And howsoever this wild world may 


the hearts of men. 


roll, 


Alexandrovna ? 


Between your peoples truth and man- 


But hearts that change not, love that 


ful peace, 


cannot cease, 


Alfred — Alexandrovna ! 



MISCELLANEOUS 



IN THE GARDEN AT SWAIN- 
STON. 

Nightingales warbled without, 
Within was weeping for thee : 
Shadows of three dead'men 
Walk'd in the walks with me, 
Shadows of three dead men, and thou 
wast one of the three. 

Nightingales sang in his woods: 
The Master was far away : 
Nightingales warbled and sang 
Of a passion that lasts but a day : 
Still in the house in his coffin 
Prince of courtesy lay. 

Two dead men have I known 
In courtesy like to thee : 
Two dead men have I loved 
With a love that ever will be : 
Three dead men have I loved, 
thou art last of the three. 



the 



and 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 

The voice and the Peak 
Far over summit and lawn. 
The lone glow and long roar 
Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 
of dawn ! 

All night have I heard the voice 
Rave over the rocky bar, 
But thou wert silent in heaven, 
Above thee glided the star. 

Hast thou no voice, O Peak, 
That standest high above all "i 



" I am the voice of the Peak, 
I roar and rave for I fall. 

" A thousand voices go 
To North, South, East, and West ; 
They leave the heights and are troubled, 
And moan and sink to their rest. 

"The fields are fair beside them. 
The chestnut towers in his bloom; 
But they — they feel the desire of the 

deep — 
Fall, and follow their doom. 

"The deep has power on the height, 
And the height has power on the 

deep ; 
They are raised forever and ever, 
And sink again into sleep." 

Not raised forever and ever. 
But when their cycle is o'er, 
The valley, the voice, the peak, the 

star. 
Pass, and are found no more. 

The Peak is high and flush'd 

At his highest with sunrise fire ; 

The Peak is high, and the stars c:re 

high. 
And the thought of a man is higher. 

A voice below the voice, 
And a height beyond the height ! 
Our hearing is not hearing, 
And our seeing is not sight. 

The voice and the Peak 
Far into heaven withdrawn, 
The lone glow and the long roar 
Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of 
dawn ! 



QUEEN MARY 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Qi!EEN Mary. 

Philip {King of Naples and Sicily, a/terivards King of Spain). 

The Princess Elizabeth. 

Reginald Pole {Cardinal and Papal Legate). 

Simon Renard {Spanish Ainbassador). 

Le Sieur de Noailles {French Ambassador). 

Thomas Cranmer {Archbishop of Canterbury). 

Sir Nicholas Heath (Archbishop of York; Lord Cha?tcellor after Gardiner). 

Edward Courtenay {Earl of Devon). 

Lord William Howard {afterwards Lord Hozvard and Lord High Admiral). 

Lord Williams of Thame. 

Lord Paget. 

Lord Petre. 

Stephen Gardiner {Bishop of IVittchester and Lord Chancellor). 

Edmund Bonner {Bishop of London). 

Thomas Thirlby {Bishop of Ely). 

Sir Thomas Wyatt \ , r j- r j \ 

Sir Thomas Stafford ! ^^"^"rrecttcnary Leaders). 

Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 
Sir Robert Southwell. 
Sir Henry Bedingfield. 
*SiR William Cecil 

Sir Thomas White {Lord 3 fay or of London). 
The Duke of Alva [ (^^^,,,^^- ^„ ^;,,y,^). 
The Count de teria ) ^ -s ^/ 

Peter Martyr. 
Father Cole. 
Father Bourne. 
Villa Garcia. 
Soto. 

Captain Brett K^^; j. jjy^^^ 

Antony Knyvett j ^ j j ' 

Peters {Gentleman of Lord Howard). 
Roger {Servatit to Noailles). 
William (Servant to Wyatt). 

Steward of Household to the Princess Elizabeth. 
Old Nokes a«^NoKEs. 

Marchioness of Exeter {Mother of Courtenay). 
Lady Clarence \ 

Lady Magdalen Dacres > {Ladies in zvaiiing to the Queen). 
Alice ) 

Maid of Honor to the Princess Elizabeth, 



tJb'" 1 (^"^^ Country Wives). 



Lords and other Attendants, Members of the Privy Council, Members of Parliament, two 
Centlemett, A Idermen, Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, Messengers, Guards, Pages, dj*c. 

(537) 



538 



QUEEN MARY. 



ACT I. 



SCEXr: I.— ALDGATE RICHLY 
DECORATED. 

Crowd. Marshalmex, 

Mars/ialman. Stand back, keep a 
clear lane. When will her Majesty 
pass, sayst thou ? why now, even now ; 
wherefore draw back your heads and 
your horns before I break them, and 
make what noise you will with your 
tongues, so it be not treason. Long 
live Queen Mary, the lawful and legiti- 
mate daughter of Harry the Eighth. 
Shout, knaves ! 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 

First Citizen. That's a hard word, 
legitimate"; what does it mean.? 

Second Citizen. It means a bastard. 

Third Citizen. Nay, it means true- 
born. 

First Citizen. Why, didn't the Par- 
liament make her a bastard .'' 

Second Citizen. No ; it was the Lady 
Elizabeth. 

Third Citizen. That was after, man ; 
that was after. 

F'irst Citizen. Then which is the 
bastard ? 

Second Citizen. Troth, tliey be both 
bastards by Act of Parliament and 
Council. 

Third Citizen. Ay, the Parliament 
can make every true-born man of us a 
bastard. OldNokes, can't it make 
thee a bastard ? thou shouldst know, 
for thou art as v.hite as three Christ- 
masses. 

Old Nokes {dreamily). Who's a-pass- 
ing ? King Edward or King Richard .'' 

Third Citizen. No, old Nokes. 

Old Nokes. It's Harry ! 

Third Citizen. It's Queen Marv. 

Old Nokes. The blessed Mary's a- 
passing ! [Falls on his knees. 

Nokes. Let father alone, my mas- 
ters ! he's past your questioning. 

Third Citizen, Answer thou for him, 
then ! thou art no such cockerel thy- 



self, for thou was born i' the tail end of 
old Harry the Seventh. 

Nokes. Eh ! that was afore bastard- 
making began. I was born true man 
at five in the forenoon i' the tail of old 
Harry, and so they can't make me a 
bastard. 

Third Citizen. But if Parliament 
can make the Queen a bastard, why, it 
follows all the more that they can 
make thee one, who art fray'd i' the 
knees, and out at elbow, and bald o' 
the back, and bursten at the toes, and 
down at heels. 

N'okes. I was born of a true man and 
a ring'd wife, and I can't argue upon 
it ; but I and my old woman 'ud burn 
upon it, that would we. 

Marshahnan. What, are you cack- 
ling of bastardy under the Queen's 
own nose ? I'll have you flogg'd and 
burnt too, by the Rood I will. 

First Citizen. He swears b}- the 
Rood. Wliew ! 

Second Citizen. Hark ! the trumpets. 
[ The Procession passes, Mary and 
Elizabeth riding side by side, 
and disappears under the gate. 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 
down with all traitors ! God save Her. 
Grace ; and death to Northumber- 
land ! [Exeujit. 



Alanent tioo Gentlemen. 

First Gentleman. By God's light a 
noble creature, right royal. 

Scco)id Gentleman. She looks come- 
lier than ordinary to-day ; but to my 
mind the Lady Elizabeth is the miore 
noble and royal. 

First Ge?itleman. I mean the Lady 
Elizabeth, Did you hear (I have a 
daughter in her service who reported 
it) that she met the Queen at Wan- 
stead with five hundred horse, and the 
Queen (tho' some say they be much 
divided) took her hand, call'd her 
sweet sister, and kiss'd not her alone, 
but all the ladies of her following. 

Second Gentleman. Ay, that was in 



Q_UEEN MARY. 



539 



her hour of joy, there \\\\\ be plenty 
to sunder and unsister them again; 
tliis Gardiner for one, who is to be 
made Lord Chancellor, and will pounce 
like a wild beast out of his cage to 
worry Cranmer. 

First Gentleman. And furthermore, 
my daughter said that when there rose 
a talk of the late rebellion, she spoke 
even ef Northumberland pitifully, and 
of the good Lady Jane as a poor inno- 
cent child who had but obeyed her 
father ; and furthermore, she said that 
no one in her time should be burnt for 
heresy. 

Second Gentleman. Well, sir, I look 
for happy times. 

Fast Gentleman. There is but one 
thing against them. I know not if you 
know. 

Second Gentleman. I suppose you 
touch upon the rumor that Charles, 
the master of the world, has offer'd her 
his son Philip, the Pope and the Devil. 
I trust it is but a rumor. 

Fi7'st Gentle7nan. She is going now 
to the Tov/er to loose the prisoners 
there, and among them Courtenay, to 
be made Earl of Devon, of royal blood, 
of splendid feature, whom the coun- 
cil and all her people wish her to 
marry. May it be so, for we are many 
of us Catholics, but few Papists, and 
the Hot Gospellers will go mad upon 

it- 

Second Gentleman. Was she not be- 
troth'd in her babyhood to the Great 
Emperor himself ? 

First Gentle7nan. Av, but he's too 
old. 

Second Gentleman. And again to her 
cousin Reginald Pole, now Cardinal, 
but I hear that he too is full of aches 
and broken before his day. 

First Gentleman. O, the Pope could 
dispense with his Cardinal ate, and his 
achage and his breakage, if that were 
all : but will you not follow the pro- 
cession ? 

Seco7id Geiitlema7i. No ; I have seen 
enough for this dav. 



First Ge7itle77ian. Well, I shall fol- 
low ; if I can get near enough I shall 
judge with my ow^n eyes whether Her 
Grace incline to this splendid scion of 
Plantagenet. [Fxennt. 

SCENE H.— A ROOM IN LAM- 
BETH PALACE. 

Cran/ner. To Strasburg, Antwerp, 

Frankfort, Zurich, Worms, 
Geneva, Basle — our Bishops from their 

sees 
Or fled, they say, or flying — Poinet, 

Barlow, 
Bale, Scory, Coverdale; besides the 

Deans 
Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and 

Wells— 
Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds 

more ; 
So they report: I shall be left alone ; 
No : Hooper, P,idley, Latimer will not 

fly- 

E7iter Peter Martyr. 
Peter Martyr. Fly, Cranmer ! were 
there nothing else, your name 

Stands first of those who sign'd the 
Letters Patent 

That gave her royal crown to Lady 
Jane. 
Cra7i77icr. Stand first it may, but it 
was written last : 

Those that are now her Privy Council, 
sign'd 

Before me ; nay, the Judges had pro- 
nounced 

That our young Edward might be- 
queath the crown 

Of England, putting bv his father's 
will. 

Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for 
me. 

The wan boy-king, with his fast-fading 
eyes 

Fixt hard on mine, his frail trans- 
parent hand. 

Damp with the sweat of death, and 
griping mine, 

Vvhisper'd me, if I loved him, not to 
yield 



540 



QUEEN MARY. 



His Church of England to the Papal 

wolf 
And Marv ; then I could no more — I 

sign'd. 
Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency, 
She cannot pass her traitor council by, 
To make me headless. 
Peter Martyr. That might be for- 
given. 
I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not 

own 
The bodily presence in the Eucharist, 
Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice : 
Your creed will be your death. 

Cranmer. Step after step, 

Thro' many voices crving right and 

left, 
Have I climb'd back into the primal 

church, 
And stand within the porch, and Christ 

with me : 
My flight were such a scandal to the 

faith. 
The downfall of so many simple souls, 
I dare not leave my post. 

Peter Martyr. But you divorced 

Queen Catharine and her father; hence, 

her hate 
Will burn till you are burn'cl. 

Cranmer. I cannot help it. 

The Canonists and Schoolmen were 

with me. 
" Thou shalt not wed thy brother's 

wife." — 'Tis written, 
"They shall be childless." True, 

Mary was born, 
But France would not accept her for a 

bride 
As being born from incest; and this 

wrought 
Upon the king ; and child by child, 

you know, 
^Vere momentary sparkles, out as 

quick 
Almost as kindled ; and he brought 

his doubts 
And fears to me. Peter, I'll swear for 

him 
lie did believe the bond incestuous. 
But wherefore am I trenching on the 

time 



That should already have seen your 

steps a mile 
From me and Lambeth ? God be with 
you ! Go. 
Peter Martyr. Ah, but how fierce a 
letter you wrote against 
Their superstition when they slander'd 

you 
For setting up a mass at Canterbury 
To please the Queen. 

Cramiicr. It was a wheedling monk 
Set up the mass. 
Peter Alartyr. I know^ it, my good 
Lord. 
But you so bubbled over with hot 

terms 
Of Satan, liars, blasphemy. Antichrist, 
She never will forgive "vou. Fly, my 
Lord, fly ! 
Craii7ner.'\ wTote it, and God grant 

me power to burn ! 
Peter Martyr. They have given me 
a safe conduct : for all that 
I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see 

you. 
Dear friend, for the last time; farewell, 
and fly. 
Cranmer. Fly and farewell, and let 
me die the death. 

\Exit Peter Martyr. 

Enter Old Servant. 

Old Serva7it. O, kind and gentle 
master, the Queen's Officers 
Are here in force to take you to the 
Tower. 

Cranmer. Ay, gentle friend, admit 
them. I will go. 
I thank my God it is too late to fly. 

\_Exezint. 

SCENE III.— ST. PAUL'S CROSS. 

{ Father Bourne in the pulpit. A 
I eroivd. MARCHIONESS OF Exeter, 

COURTENAY. T/ie SlEUR DE NOAIL- 

i.es and his man Roger iji front of 
the stage. Ihtblntb. 

Noailles. Hast thou let fall those 

papers in the palace } 
Roger. Ay, sir. 



QUEEN MARY. 



541 



Noailles. " There will be no peace 
for Mary till Elizabeth lose her h&ad," 

Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles.' Kx\(\. the other. "Long 
live Elizabeth the Queen." 

Roger. Ay, sir ; she needs must tread 
upon them. 

Noailles. Well. 

These beastly swine make such a 

grunting here, 
I cannot catch what Father Bourne is 
saying. 

Roger. Quiet a moment, my masters ; 
hear«what the shaveling has to say for 
himself. 

Crowd. Hush — hear. 

Bourne. — and so this unhappy land, 
long divided in itself, and sever'd from 
the faith, will return into the one true 
fold, seeing that our gracious Virgin 
Queen hath — 

Crorvd. No pope ! no pope ! 

Roger, [to those about him, mijuick- 
?;^^'- Bourne). — hath sent for the holy 
legate of the holy father the Pope, 
Cardinal Pole, to give us all that holy 
absolution which — 

First Citizen. Old Bourne to the life ! 

Second Citizen. Holy absolution ! holy 
Inquisition ! 

Third Citizen. Down with the Pa- 
pist. [Hubbub. 

Bourne. — and now that your good 
bishop, Bonner, who hath lain so long 
under bonds for the faith — {^Hubbub'. 

N'oailles. Friend Roger, steal thou in 
among the crowd, 
And get the swine to shout Elizabeth. 
Von gray old Gospeller, sour as mid- 
winter, . 
Begin with him. 

Roger (goes). By the mass, old friend, 
we'll have no pope here while the Lady 
Elizabeth lives. 

Gospeller. Art thou of the true faith, 
fellow, that swearest by the mass ? 

Roger. Ay, that am I, new converted, 
but the old leaven sticks to my tongue 
yet. 

First Citizen. He says right ; by th.e 
mass we'll have no mass here. 



Voices of the Crorud. Peace ! hear him ; 
let his own words damn the Papist. 
From thine own mouth I judge thee — 
tear him down. 

Bourne. — and since our Gracious 
Queen, let me call her our second Vir- 
gin Mary, hath begun to re-edify the 
true temple — 

First Citizen. Virgin Mary ! we'll 
have no virgins here — we'll have the 
Lady Elizabeth ! 

[Siaords are draivn, a knife is 

hurled, and sticks in the pulpit. 

The mob throng to the pulpit 

stairs. 

Afarchioness of Exeter. Son Cour- 

tenay, wilt thou see the holy father 

Murder'd before thy face .^ up, son, and 

save him ! 
They love thee, and thou canst not 
come to harm. 
Courtenay {in the pulpit). Shame, 
shame, my masters ! are you Eng- 
lish-born, 
And set yourselves by hundreds against 
one .'* 
Crozvd. A Courtenay ! a Courtenay ! 
[A train of Spanish servants crosses 
at the back of the stage. 
N'oailles. These birds of passage 
come before their time : 
Stave off the crowd upon the vSpaniard 
there. 
Roger. My masters, yonder's fatter 
game for you 
Than this old gaping gurgoyle : look 

you there — 
The Prince of Spain coming to wed 

our Queen ! 
After him, boys ! and pelt him from 
the city. 

[ They seize stones and follow the 
Spaniards. Exeunt on the other 
side Marchioness of Exeter 
and Attendafits. 
Noailles [to Roger). Stand from. me. 
If Elizabeth lose her head — 
That makes for France. 
And if her people, anger'd thereupon, 
Arise against her and dethrone the 
Queen — 



542 



QUEEN MARY. 



That makes for France. 

And if I breed confusion an3-\vay — 

That makes for France. 

Good day, my Lord of Devon ; 
A bold heart yours to beard that rag- 
ing mob ! 
Coiirtejiay. My mother said, Go up ; 
and up I went. 
I knew they would not do me any 

wrong, 
For I am mighty popular with them, 
Noailles. 
N'oailles. You look'd a king. 
Courtenay. Why not ? I am king's 

blood. 
Noailles. And in the whirl or change 

may come to be one. 
Courtenay. Ah ! 
Noailles. But does your gracious 

Queen entreat you king-like .-• 
Courtenay. 'Fore God, I think she 

entreats me like a child. 
Noailles. You've but a dull life in this 
maiden court, 
I fear, my Lord. 

Cojirtenay. A life of nods and yawns. 
N'oailles. So you would honor my 
poor house to-night, 
We might enliven you. Divers honest 

fellows, 
The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from 

prison. 
Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas 

Wyatt, 
Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more 
— we play. 
Courtenay. At what 1 
N^oailles. The Game of Chess. 

Courtenay. The Game of Chess ! 

I can play well, and I shall beat you 
there. 
Noqilles. Ay, but we play with I lenry, 
King of France, 
And certain of his court. 
His Highness makes his moves across 

the channel, 
We answer him with ours, and there 

are messengers 
That go between us. 

Courtenay. Why, such a game, sir, 
were whole years a playing. 



Noailles. Nay ; not so long, I trust. 
That all depends 
Upon the skill and swiftness of the 
players. 
Courtenay. The King is skilful at it ? 
N'oailles. Very, my Lord. 

Courtenay. And the stakes high .-' 
I Noailles. But not beyond your means. 
! Courtenay. Well, I'm the first of 
1 players. I shall win. 

: N'oailles. With our advice and in our 
company, 
And so you will attend to the king's 

moves, 
I think you may. 

Courtenay. When do you meet .-* 
N'oailles. To-night. 

Cotcrtenay [aside). I will be there; 
the fellow's at his tricks — 
Deep — I shall fathom him. [Aloud.) 
Good-morning, Noailles 

\Exit Courtenay. 
N'oailles. Good-day, my Lord. 
Strange game of chess ! a King 
That with her own pawns plays against 

a Queen, 
Whose play is all to find herself a 

King. 
Ay ; but this fine blue-blooded Cour- 
tenay seems 
Too princely for a pawn. Call him a 

Knight, 
That, with an ass's not an horse's 

head, 
Skips every way, from levity or from 

fear. 
Well, we shall use him somehow, so 

that Gardiner 
And Simon Renard spy not out our 

game 
Too early. Roger, thinkcst thou thai 

any one 
Suspected thee to be my man } 

Roger. Not one, sir. 

Noailles. No ! the disguise was per- 
fect. Let's away ! {E.xeunt. 



QUEEN MAR V. 



543 



SCENE IV.— LONDON. A ROOM ' 
IN THE PALACE. 

Elizabeth. Enter Courtenay. i 

Conrtenay. So yet am I, I 

Unles.s my friends and mirrors lie to ' 
me, j 

A goodlier-looking fellow than this 

Philip. 1 

Pah ! 
The Queen is ill advised : shall I turn 

traitor .^ 
They've almost talk'dme into : yet the 

word ' I 

Affrights me somewhat; to be such a I 

one j 

As Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in : 

it. ' j 

Good now, my Lady Queen, tho' by ! 

your age, | 

And by your looks you are not worth \ 

the having, 
Yet by your crown you are. 

'[Seeing Elizabeth. 
The Princess there .'' 
If I tried her and la — she's amorous. 
Have we not heard of her in Edward's 

time. 
Her freaks and frolics with the late 

Lord Admiral ^ 
I do believe she'd yield. I should be 

still 
A party in the state ; and then, who 
knows — 
Elizabeth. What are you musing on, 

my Lord of Devon .-' 
Cotirtenay. Has not the Queen — 
Elizabdh. Done what. Sir ? 

Courtenay. — Made you follow 

The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Lennox. 
You, 
The heir presumptive. 

Elizabeth. Why do you ask .' you 

know it. 
Ctmrtenay. You needs must bear it 

hardly. 
Elizabeth. No, indeed ! 

I am utterly submissive to the Queen. 
Courtejiay. Well, I was musing upon 
that; the Queen 



Is both my foe and }ours : we should 
be friends. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, the hatred of 
another to us 
Is no true bond of friendship. 

Courtenay. Might it not 

Be the rough preface of some closer 
bond } 
Elizabeth. My Lord, you late were 
loosed from out the Tower, 
Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis, 
You spent your life; that broken, out 

you flutter 
Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now 

would settle 
Upon this flower, now that; but all 
things here [ited 

At court are known; you have solic- 
The Queen, and been rejected. 

Cotirtenay. Flower, she ! 

Half faded ! but you, cousin, are fresh 

and sweet 
As the first flower no bee has ever 
tried. 
Elizabeth. Are you the bee to try 
me } why, but' now 
I called you butterfly. 

Courtenay. You did me wrong, 

I love not to be called a butterfly ; 
Why do you call me butterfly .'' 

Elizabeth. Why do you go so gay 

then } 
Courtenay. Velvet and gold. 

This dress was made me as the Earl of 

Devon 
To take my seat in : looks it not right 
royal ? 
Elizabeth. So royal that the Queen 

forbade you wearing it. 
Courtenay. I wear it then to spite 

her. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, my Lord ; 

I see you in the Tower again. Her 

Majesty 
Hears you affect the Prince — prelates 
kneel to you. — 
Courtenay. I am the noblest blood 
in Europe, Madam, 
A Courtenay of Devon, and her cousin. 
Elizabeth. She hears you make your 
boast that after all 



544 



QUEEN MARY. 



She means to wed you. P\)lly, my 
good Lord. 
Courtcnay. How folly .? a great party 
in the state 
Wills me to wed her. 

Elizabeth. Failing her, my Lord, 

Doth not as great a party in the state 
Will you to wed me ? 

Courtenay. Even so, fair lady. 

Elizabeth. You know to flatter ladies. 
Courtenay. Nay, I meant 

True matters of the heart. 

Elizabeth. My heart, my Lord, 

Is no great party in the state as yet. 
Courtenay. Great, said you ? nay, you 
shall be great. I love you. 
Lay my life in your hands. Can you 
be close t 
Elizabeth. Can you, my Lord ? 
Courtenay. Close as a miser's casket. 
Listen : 

The King of France, Noailles the Am- 
bassador, 
The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Pet^r 

Carew, 
Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some 

others, 
Have sworn this Spanish marriage 

shall not be. 
If Mary will not hear us — well — con- 
jecture — 
W'ere I in Devon with my wedded 

bride, 
The people there so worship me — 

Your ear ; 
Yon shall be Queen. 

Elizabeth. You speak too low, my 
Lord ; 
I cannot hear you. 

Co2irtenav. I'll repeat it. 

Elizabeth. No ! 

Stand farther off, or you may lose your 
head. 
Courtenay. I have a head to lose for 

your sweet sake. 
Elizabeth. Have you, my Lord .^ B&st 
keep it for your own. 
Nay, pout not, cousin. 
Not many friends are mine, except in- 
deed 
Among the many. I believe you mine ; 



And so you may continue mine, fare- 
well, 
And that at once. 

Enter Mary, behind. 

Mary. Whispering — leagued to 

gether 
To bar me from my Philip. 

Courtenay. Pray — consider — 

Elizabeth [seeing the QuEEN ). Well, 

that's a noble horse of yours, my 

Lord. 

I trust that he will carry you well to-day, 

And heal your headache. 

Courtenay. You are wild ; what 
headache ? 
Heartache, perchance ; not headache. 
Elizabeth [aside to Courtenay). 
Are you blind .^ 

{^Courtenay sees the QuEEN and exit. 
Exit Mary. 

Enter LoRD William Howard. 

Howard. Was that my Lord of 

Devon ? do not you 
Be seen in corners with my Lord of 

Devon. 
He hath fallen out of favor witli the 

Queen. 
She fears the Lords may side with you 

and him 
Against her marriage ; therefore is he 

dangerous. 
And if this Prince of fluff and feather 

come 
To woo you, niece, he is dangerous 

every way. 
Elizabeth. Not very dangerous that 

way, my good uncle. 
l/o7uard. But your own state is full 

of danger here. 
The disaffected, heretics, reformers, 
Look to you as the one to crown their 

ends. 
Mix not yourself with any plot, I pray 

you ; 
Nay,' if by chance you hear of any 

such. 
Speak not thereof — no, not to your best 

friend, 



QUEEN MARY. 



545 



Lest you should be confounded with it. 

Still— 
Perinde ac cadaver — as the priest says, 
Vou know your Latin — quiet as a dead 

body. 
What was my Lord of Devon telling 

you ? 
Elizabeth. Whether he told me any 

thing or not, 
I follow your good counsel, gracious 

uncle. 
Quiet as a dead body. 

Hozuard. Vou do right well. 

I do not care to know, but this I 

charge you, 
Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord 

Chancellor 
(I count it as a kind of virtue in him. 
He hath not many), as a mastiff dog 
May love a puppy cur for no more 

reason 
Than that the twain have been tied up 

together, 
Thus Gardiner — for the two were fel- 
low prisoners 
So many years in yon accursed Tower — 
Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look 

to it, niece, 
He hath no fence when Gardiner 

questions him ; 
All oozes out; yet him — because they 

know him 
The last White Rose, the last Planta- 

genet 
(Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the 

people 
Claim as their natural leader — ay, some 

say, 
That you shall marry him, make him 

King belike. 
Elizabeth. Do they say so, good 

uncle .'' 
Ho7vard. Ay, good niece ! 

Vou should be plain and open with me, 

niece. 
You should not play upon me. 

Elizabeth. No, good uncle. 

Enter Gardiner. 
Gardiner. The Queen would see 
your Grace upon the moment. 

35 



Elizabeth. Wiiy, my lord Bishop ? 
Gardiner. I think she means to 
counsel your withdrawing 
To Ashridge, or some other count rv 
house. 
Elizabeth. Why, my lord Bishop "■ 
Gardiner. I do but bring the mes- 
sage, know no more. 
Your Grace will hear her reasons from 
herself. 
Elizabeth. 'Tis mine own wish ful 
fiird before the word 
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant 

to crave 
Permission of her Highness to retire 
To Ashridge, and pursue my studies 
there. 
Gardiner. Madam, to have the wish 
before the word 
Is man's good Fairy — and the Queen 

is yours. 
I left her with rich jewels in her hand, 
Whereof 'tis like enough she means to 

make 
A farewell present to your Grace. 

Elizabeth. My Lord, 

I have the jewel of a loyal heart. 

Gardiner. I doubt it not, Madam, 
most loyal. YBaivslozo and exit- 
Hoivard. See, 
This comes of parleying with my Lord 
of Devon. [self 

Well, well, you must obey; and I my- 
Believe it will be better for your wel- 
fare. 
Your time will come. 

Elizabeth. I think my time will come. 
Uncle, 

I am of sovereign nature, that I know. 
Not to be quell'd ; and I have felt 

within me 
Stirrings of some great doom when 

God's just hour 
Peals — but this fierce old Gardiner — 

his big baldness. 
That irritable forelock which he rubs, 
His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd 

eyes 
Half fright me. 
Howard. You've a bold heart ; keep 
it so. 



54^ 



QUEEN MARY. 



lie cannot touch you save that you 

turn traitor ; 
And so take heed I pray you— you are 

one 
Who love that men should smile upon 

you, niece. 
They'd smile you into treason — some 

of them. 
Elizabeth. I spy the rock beneath the 

smiling sea. 
But if this Philip, the proud Catholic 

prince. 
And this bald priest, and she that hates 

me, seek [life, 

In that lone house, to practise on my 
15y poison, fire, shot, stab — 

Hozuard. They will not, niece. 

Mine is the fleet and all the power at 

sea — 
Or will be in a moment. If they 

dared 
To harm you, I would blow this Philip 

and all 
Your trouble to the dogstar and the 

devil. 
Elizabeth. To the Pleiads, uncle ; 

they have lost a sister. 
Howard. But why say that ? what 

have you done to lose her t 
Come, come, I will go with you to the 

Queen. [Exeiuit. 

SCENE v.— A ROOM IN TPIE 
PALACE. 

Mary luith Philip's miniature. Alice. 

Mary [kissing the mi7tiatiere). Most 

goodly, king-like, and an emperor's 

son, — 
A king to be, — is he not noble, girl } 
Alice. Goodly enough, your Grace, 

and yet, methinks, 
I have seen goodlier. 

Maiy. Ay ; some waxen doll 

Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike ; 
All red and white, the fashion of our 

land. 
But my good mother came (God rest 

her soul) 
Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself. 
And in my likings. 



Alice. By your Grace's leave 

Your royal mother came of Spain, but 

took 
To the English red and white. Your 

royal father 
(For so they say) was all pure lily and 

rose 
In his youth, and like a lady. 

Mary. O, just God ! 

Sweet mother, you had time and cause 

enough 
To sicken of his lilies and his roses. 
Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, 

forlorn ! 
And then the king — that traitor past 

forgiveness, 
The false archbishop fawning on him, 

married 
The mother of Elizabeth— a heretic 
Ev'n as sJie is ; but God hath sent me 

here 
To take such order with all heretics 
That it shall be, before I die, as tho' 
My father and mv brother had not 

lived. 
What wast thou saying of this Lady 

Jane, 
Now in the Tower ? 

Alice. Why, Madam, she was pass- 
ing [her 
Some chapel down in Essex, and with 
Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady 

Anne 
Bow'd to the Pyx ; but Lady Jane 

stood up 
Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. 
And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady 

Anne, 
To him within there who made Heaven 

and Earth ? 
I cannot, and I dare not, tell your Grace 
What Lady Jane replied. 
Mary. ^ But I will have it. 

Alice. She said — pray pardon me, 

and pity her — 
She hath hearken'd evil counsel — ah! 

she said. 
The baker made him. 

Mary. Monstrous ! blasphemous ! 
She ought to burn. Hence, thou 

{Exit Alice.) No — being traitor 



QUE E A' MARK 



547 



Her head will fail : shall it ? she is but 

a child. 
We do not kill the child for doing that 
His father whipt him into doing — a 

head 
So full of grace and beauty ! would 

that mine 
"Were half as gracious ! O, mv lord to 

be, 
Mv love, for thy sake only. 
I am eleven years older than he is. 
Hut will he care for that ? 
No, by the holy Virgin, being noble, 
But love me only : then the bastard 

sprout. 
My sister, is far fairer than myself. 
Will he be drawn to her } 
No, being of the true faith with myself. 
Paget is for him — for to wed with 

Spain 
Would treble England — Gardiner is 

against him ; 
The Council, people. Parliament 

against him ; 
But I will have him! My hard father 

hated me ; 
My brother rather hated me than 

loved: 
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy 

Virgin, 
Plead with thy blessed Son ; grant me 

my prayer ; 
Give me my Philip; and we two will 

lead 
The living waters of the Faith again 
Back thro' their widow'd channel here, 

and watch 
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as 

of old, 
To heaven, and kindled with the palms 

of Christ! 

Enter Usher. 

W^ho waitS; Sir? 

Usher Madam, the Lord Chancel- 
lor. 

Mary. Bid him come in. [Enter 
Gardiner.) Good-morning, my 
good Lord. [Exit Usher. 

Gardiner. That every morning of 
your Majesty 



I May be most good, is every morning's 
I prayer 

Of your most loyal subject, Stephen 
I Gardiner. 

! Mary. Come you to tell me this, 
j my Lord .'' 

I Gardiner. And more. 

Your people have begun to learn your 
I worth. 

Your pious wish to pay King Edward's 
debts, 
' Your lavish household curb'd, and the 
remission 
Of half that subsidy levied on the peo- 
i pie, 

; Make all tongues praise and all hearts 
I beat for you. 

I'd have you yet more loved : the 
! realm is poor, 

i The exchequer at neap-ebb: we might 
withdraw 
Part of our garrison at Calais. 

Mary. Calais ! 

i Our one point on the main, the gate of 

France ! 
; I am Queen of England; take mine 
I eyes, mine heart, 

1 But do not lose me Calais. 
j Gardiner. Do not fear it. 

j Of that hereafter. I say your Grace 
i is loved. 

i That I may keep you thus, who am 
you friend 
And ever faithful counsellor, might I 
speak ? 
Mary. I can forespeak your speak- 
j ing. Would I marry 

Prince Philip, if all England hate him ? 

That is 
Your question, and I front it with 
I another : 

; Is it England, or a party ? Now, your 
I answer. 

Gardiner. My answer is, I wear 
beneath my dress 
A shirt of mail : my ho-use hath been 

assaulted. 
And when I walk abroad, the popu- 
! lace. 

With fingers pointed like so many 



548 



QUEEX MARY 



vStab mc in fancy, hissing Spain and 

Philip; 
And when I sleep, a hundred men-at- 
arms 
Guard my poor dreams f^r England. 

Men would murder mc, 
Because they think me favorer of this 

marriage. 
Mary. And that were hard upon 

you, my Lord Chancellor. 
Gardiner. But our young Earl of 

Devon — 
Mary. Earl of Devon .^ 

7 freed him from the Tower, placed 

him at Court ; 
I made him Earl of Devon, and — the 

fool— 
lie wrecks his health and wealth on 

courtesans, 
And rolls himself in carrion like a dog. 
Gardiner. More like a school-boy 

that hath broken bounds. 
Sickening himself with sweets. 

Alary. I will not hear of him. 

Good, then, they will revolt : but I am 

Tudor, 
And shall contr(^l them. 

Gardiner. I will help you, Madam, 
Even to the utmost. All the church is 

grateful. 
You have ousted the mock priest, re- 

pulpited 
The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the 

rood again, 
And brought us back the mass. I am 

all thanks 
To God and to your Grace : yet I 

know well, 
Your people, and I go with them so 

far, 
Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard 

here to play 
The tyrant,- or in commonwealth or 

church. 
Mary {showiitg the picture). Is this 

the face of one who plays the 

tyrant } 
Peruse it : is it not goodly, ay, and 

gentle > 
Gardiner. Madam, mcthinks a cold 

face and a haughty. 



And when your Highness talks of 

C our ten ay — 
Ay, true— a goodly one. I would his 

life 
Were half as goodly {aside). 

Majy. What is that you mutter ? 

Gardiner. Oh, Madam, take it 

bluntly; marry Philip, 

And be step-mother of a score of sons! 

The prince is known in Spain, in 

Flanders, ha! 
For Philip — 

Mary. You offend us ; you may 
leave us. 
You see thro' warping glasses. 

Gardiner. If your Majesty — 

Mary. I have sworn upon the body 
and blood of Christ 
I'll none but Philip, 

Gardiner, Hath your Grace so 

sworn ? 
■Mary. Ay, Simon Renard knows it. 
Gardiner. News to me ! 

It then remains for your poor Gardiner, 
So you still care to trust him some- 
what less [event 
Than Simon Renard, to compose the 
In some such form as least may harm 
your Grace. 
Mary. I'll have the scandal sounded 
to the mud. 
I know it a scandal. 

Gardiner. All my hope is now 

It may be found a scandal. 

Mary. You offend us. 

Gardiner (aside). These princes 

are like children, must be phvs- 

ick'd, 

The bitter in the sweet. I have lost 

mine office, 
It may be, thro' mine honcstv, like a 
fool. " [Exit. 

Enter Usher. 

Mary. Who waits ? 

Us/ier. The Ambassador from 
France, your Grace. 

Alary. Bid him come in. Good- 
morning, Sir de Noaillcs. 

[Exit Usher. 



QUEEX MARW 



549 



N'oailles [entering). A happy morn- 
ing to your Majesty. 
Mary. And I should some time 

have a happy morning ; 
I have had none yet. What says the 

King your master .-' 
Noaillcs. Madam, my master hears, 

with much alarm, 
That you may marry Philip, Prince of 

Spain — [ness. 

Foreseeing, with whate'er nnwilling- 
That if this Philip be the titular king 
Of England, and at war wii.h him, 

your Grace 
.\p.d kingdom will be suck'd into the 

war. 
Ay, tho' you long for peace ; wherefore, 

my master. 
If but to prove vour Majesty's good 

will, 
Would fain have some fresh treaty 

drawn between you. 
Mary. Why some fresh treaty .'* 

wherefore should I do it ? 
Sir, if we marry, we shall still main- 
tain 
All former treaties with his Majesty. 
Our royal word for that! and your 

good master, 
Pray God he do not be the first to 

break them. 
Must be content with that ; and so, 

farewell. 
N'oailles {goings returns). I would 

your answer had been other, 

^ladam. 
For I foresee dark days. 

Jllary. And so do I, sir ; 

Your master works against me in the 

dark. 
I do believe he holp Northumberland 
Against me. 
A^oailles. Nay, pure fantasy, your 

Grace. 
Why should he move against you ? 

Mary. Will you hear why ? 

Mary of Scotland, — for I have not 

own'd 
My sister, and I will not, — after me 
Is heir of England ; and my royal 

father. 



To make the crown of Scotland one 

with ours, 
Had mark'd her for my brother Ed- 
ward's bride ; 
Ay, but your king stole her a babe 

from Scotland 
In order to betroth her to your Dau- 
phin. 
See then : 
Mary of Scotland, married to your 

Dauphin, 
Would make our England, France ; 
Mary of England, joining hands with 

Spain, 
Would be too strong for France. 
Yea, were there issue born to her, 

Spain and we, 
One crown, might rule the world. 

There lies your fear. 
That is your drift. You play at hide 

and seek. 
Show me your faces ! 

N'oailles. Tiladam, I am amazcil : 
French, I must needs wish all gocd 

things for France. 
That must be pardon'd me ; Init I 

protest 
Your Grace's policy hath a farther 

flight [seek 

Than mine into the future. We but 
Some settled ground for peace to stand 

upon. 
Mary. Well, we will leave all this, 

sir, to our counciL 
Have you seen Philip ever ? 

Noaillcs. - Only once. 

Mary. ' Is this like Philip .? 
Noailles. Ay, but nobler-looking. 
Mary. Hath he the large ability of 

the Emperor ? 
Noailles. No, surely. 
Mary. I can make allowance for 

thee. 
Thou speakest of the enemy of thy 

king. 
Noailles. Make no allowance for the 

naked truth. 
He is every way a lesser man than 

Charles : 
Stone-hard, ice-cold — no dash of dar- 
ing in him. 



55' 



QUEEN MARY. 



Mary. If cold, his life is pure. 
A'oailles. Why [smiliug], no, indeed. 
Mary. Saj'st'thou ? 
Noailles. A very wanton life indeed 

{smjlini!;). 
Mary. Your audience is concluded, 
sir. 

\_Exit Noailles. 
You cannot 
Le;\rn a mail's nature from his natural 
foe. 

Enter Usher. 

Who waits ? 

Usher. The ambassador of Spain, 
your Grace. \^Exit. 

Enter SiMON Renard. 

Mary. Thou art ever welcome, 

Simon Renard. Hast thou 
Brought me the letter which thine 

Emperor promised 
Long since, a formal offer of the hand 

of Philip .? 
Reiiard. Nay, your Grace, it hath 

not reach'd me. 
I know not wherefore — some mis- 
chance of flood, 
And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, 

or wave 
And wind at their old battle ; he must 

have written. 
Alary. But Philip never writes me 

one poor word. 
Which in his absence had been all my 

wealth. 
Strange in a wooer ! 

Renard. Yet I know the Prince, 

So your king-parliarnent suffer him to 

land, 
Yearns to set foot upon your island 

shore. 
Mary. God change the pebble 

which his kingly foot 
First presses into some more costly 

stone 
Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one 

mark it 
And bring it me. I'll have it burn- 

ish'd firelike : 



I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, 

with diamond. 
Let the great angel of the church com.e 

with him ; 
Stand on the deck and spread his 

wings for sail ! 
God lay the waves and strew the 

storms at sea, 
And here at land among the people. 

O Renard, 
I am much beset, I am almost in de- 
spair. 
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is 

ours ; 
But for our heretic Parliament — 

Renard. O Madam, 

You fly your thoughts like kites. My 

master, Charles, 
Bade you go softly with your heretics 

here. 
Until your throne had ceased to trem- 
ble. Then 
Spit them like larks for aught I care. 

Besides, 
When Henry broke the carcass of your 

church 
To pieces, there were many wolves 

among you 
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into 

their den. 
The Pope would have you make them 

render these ; 
So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole ; 

ill cotmsel ! 
These let them keep at present ; stir 

not yet 
This matter of the Church lands. At 

his coming 
Your star will rise. 

Mary. My star ! a baleful one. 

I see but the black night, and hear the 

wolf. 
What star .? 
Renard. Your star will be your 

princely son, 
Heir of this England and the Nether- 
lands! 
And if your wolf the while should howl 

for more 
We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish 

gold. 



QUEEN MARY. 



551 



I do believe, I have dusted some al- 
ready, 
That, soon or late, your parliament is 
ours. 
Mary. Why do they talk so foully 
of your Prince, 
Renard ? 
Reuard. The lot of princes. To 
sit high 
Is to be lied about. 
. Mary. They call him cold, 

Haughty, ay, worse. 

Rt'/iard. Why, doubtless, Philip 
shows 
Some of the bearing of vour blue blood 

—still 
All within measure — nay, it well be- 
comes him. 
Mary. Hath he the large ability of 

his father .'' 
Renard. Nay, some believe that he 

will go beyond him. 
Mary. Is this like him ? 
Renard. Ay, somewhat; but your 
Philip 
Is the most princelike Prince beneath 

the sun. 
This is a daub to Philip. 
Mary. Of a pure life ? 

Renard. As an angel among angels. 
Yea, by Heaven, 
The text — Your Highness knows it, 

" Whosoever 
Looketh after a woman," would not 

graze 
The Prince of Spain. You are happy 

in him there, 
Chaste as your Grace ! 

Mary. I am happy in him there. 
Renard. And would be altogether 
happy, Madam, 
So that your sister were but look'd to 

closer. 
You have sent her from the court, but 

then she goes, 
I warrant, not to hear the nightingales, 
But hatch you some new treason in 
the woods. 
Mary. We have our spies abroad 
to catch her tripping. 
And then if caught, to the Tower. 



Renard. The Tower ! the block. 
The word has turned your Highness 

pale ; the thing 
Was no such scarecrow in your father's 

time. 
I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd 

with the jest 
When the head leapt — so common ! I 

do think 
To save your crown that it must come 

to this. 
Mary. I love her not, but all the 

people love her. 
And would not have her even to the 

Tower. 
Renard. Not yet ; but your old 

Traitors of the Tower — ' 
Why, when you put Northumberland 

to death, [all. 

The sentence having past upon them 
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, 

Guildford Dudley, 
Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear 

your crown ? 
Mary. Dared, no, not that ; the 

child obey'd her father. 
Spite of her tears her father forced it 

on her. 
Renard. Good Madam, when the 

Roman wish'd to reign. 
He slew not him alone who wore the 

purple. 
But his assessor in the throne, per- 
chance 
A child more innocent than Lady Jane. 
Mary. I am English Queen, not 

Roman Emperor. 
Renard. Yet too much m.ercy is a 

want of mercy. 
And wastes more life. Stamp out the 

fire, or this 
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn. 

the throne 
Vv'^here you should sit with Philip : he 

will not come 
Till she be gone. 

Mary. Indeed, if that were true — 
But I must say farewell. I am some- 
what faint 
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am 

not Queen 



552 



QUEEN MARY. 



Of mine own heart, which every now 

and then 
Beats me half dead : yet stay, this 

golden chain — 
My father on a birthday gave it me, 
And I have broken with my father — 

take 
And wear it as memorial of a miorning 
Which found me full of foolish doubts, 

and leaves me 
As hopeful. 

Rcuard [aside). Whew — the folly of 

all follies 
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. 

{Aloud) Madam, 
This chains me to your service, not 

with gold, 
But dearest links of love. Farewell, 

and trust me, 
Philip is yours. \^Exit. 

Mary. Mine — but not yet all mine. 

Enter Usher 

Usher. Your Council is in Session, 

please your Majesty. 
Mary. Sir, let them sit, I must 

have time to breathe. 
No, say I come. {Exit Usher.) I 

won by boldness once. 
The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to 

Flanders. 
I would not; but a hundred miles I 

rode, 
Sent out my letters, call'd my friends 

together, 
-Struck home and won. 
And when the Council would not 

crown me — thought 
To bind me first by oaths I could not 

keep. 
And keep with Christ and conscience 

— was it boldness 
■Or weakness that won there ? When 

I their Queen, 
Cast myself down uj^on my knees be- 
fore them, 
And those hard men brake into woman 

tears, 
Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that 

passion 
Gave me my crown. 



Enter Alice. 



Girl, hast thou ever heard 
Slanaers against Prince Philip in our 
Court ? 
Alice. What slanders ? I, your 

Grace ; no, never. 
Mary. Nothing ? 

Alice. Never, j'our Grace. 
Mary. See that you neither hear 

them nor repeat ! 
Alice {aside). Good Lord ! but I 
have heard a thousand such. 
Ay, and repeated them as often — 

mum ! 
Why comes that old fox-Fleming back 
again .'' 

Enter Renard. 

Renard. Madam, I scarce had left 
your Grace's presence 
Before I chanced upon the messenger 
Who brings that letter which we waited 

for— 
The formal offer of Prince Philip's 

hand. 
It craves an instant answer. Ay or No? 
Alary. An instant, Ay or No! the 
Council sits. 
Give it me quick. 

Alice {stepping before her). Your 

Highness is all trembling. 
Mofy. Make way. 

[Exit into the Council Chamber. 
Alice. O, Master Renard, Master 
Renard, 
If you have falsely painted your fine 

Prince ; 
Praised, where you should have blamed 

him, I pray God 
No woman ever love you, Master 

Renard. 
It breaks my heart to hear her moan at 

, night 
As tho' the nightmare never left her 
bed. 
Re7iard. My pretty maiden, tell me, 
did you ever 
Sigh for a beard .' 

Alice. That's not a pretty question. 
Renard. Not prettily put .? I mean, 
ray pretty maiden, 



QUEEN MARY. 



55: 



A pretty man for such a pretty maiden. 
Alice. My Lord of Devon is a 
pretty man. 
I hate him. Well, but if I have, what 
then ? 
Renard. Then, pretty maiden, you 
should know that whether 
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to 

fan 
A kindled fire. 

Alice. According to the song. 

" His friends would praise him, I believed 'em 
His foes would blame him, and I scorned 
'em, 
His friends — as Angels I received 'em, 
His foes — the Devil had suborn'd 'em." 

Roiard. Peace, pretty maiden. 

I hear them stirring in the Council 
Chamber. 

Lord Paget's " Ay " is sure — who 
else ? and yet, 

They are all too much at odds to close 
at once 

In one full throated No ! Her High- 
ness comes. 

Enter AL\RY. 

Alice. How deathly pale ! — a chair, 
your Highness. 

\_8ri7iginq one to the Queen. 
Renard. Madam, 

The Council ? 

Mary Ay I My Philip is all mine. 
\Sitiks into a chair, half faintijig. 



ACT II. 

SCENE L— ALLINGTON 
CASTLE. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt. I do not hear 

from Carew or the Duke 
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not 

move. 
The Duke hath gone, to Leicester; 

Carew stirs 
In Devon ; that fine porcelain Courte- 

nay^ 
Save that he fears he might be crack'd 

in using. 



(I have known a semi-madman in my 

time 
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon 

too. 

Enter WiLLlAM. 

News abroad, William ? 

William. None so new, Sir Thomas, 
and none so old, Sir Thomas. No 
new news that Philip comes to wed 
Mary, no old news that all men hate it. 
Old Sir Thomas would have hated it. 
The bells are ringing at Maidstone. 
Doesn't your worship hear t 

Wyatt. Ay, for the Saints are come 

to reign again. 
Most like "it is" a Saint's-day. There's 

no call 
As yet for me ; so in this pause, be- 
fore 
The mine be fired, it were a pious 

work 
To string my father's sonnets, left 

about 
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair 

order. 
And head them with a lamer rhyme of 

mine, 
To grace his memory. 

William. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas } 
He was a fine courtier, he ; Queen 
Anne loved him. All the women 
loved him. I loved him, I was in 
Spain with him. I couldn't eat in 
Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I 
hate Spain, Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. But thou couldst drink in 
Spain if I remember. 

William. Sir Thomas, we may grant 
the wine. Old Sir Thomas always 
granted the wine. 

Wyatt. Hand me the casket with my 
father's sonnets. 

William. Ay — sonnets — a fine cour- 
tier of the old Court, old Sir Thomas. 

\_Exit. 
Wyatt. Courtier of many courts, he 

loved the more 
His own gray towers, plain life and 

letter'd peace, 
To read and rhyme in solitary fields, 



554 



QUEEN MARY. 



The lark above, the nightingale belov/, 
And answer them in song. The Sire 

begets 
Not half his likeness in the son. I 

fail 
Where he was fullest : yet — to write it 

clown. [//^ writes. 

Re-enter William. 

Williajn. There is news, there is 
news, and no call for sonnet-sorting 
now, nor for sonnet-making either, but 
ten thousand men on Penenden Heath 
all calling after your worship, and 
your worship's name heard into Maid- 
stone market, and your worship the 
first man in Kent and Christendom, 
for the world's up, and your worship 
a-top of it. 

Wyatt. Inverted ^sop — mountain 
out of mouse, 
i^ay for ten thousand ten — and pot- 
house knaves, 
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morn- 
ing ale. 

Enter Antony Knyvett. 

William. Here's Antony Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Look you. Master Wyatt, 
Tear up that woman's work there. 

Wyatt. No ; not these. 

Dumb children of my father, that will 

speak 
When I and thou and all rebellions lie 
Dead bodies without voice. Song flies, 

you know. 
For ages. 

Knyvett. Tut, your sonnet's a flying 
ant, 
Wing'd for a moment. 

Wyatt, Well, for mine own work, 

[ Tearing the paper. 

It lies there in six pieces at your feet ; 

For all that I can carry it in my head. 

Knyvett. If you can carry your head 

upon your shoulders. 
Wyatt. I fear you come to carry it 
off my shoulders, 
And sonnet-making's safer. 

Knyvett. Why, good Lord, 



Write you as many sonnets as you will. 
Ay, but not now ; what, have you eyes, 

ears, brains .? 
This Philip and the black-faced swarms 

of Spain, 
The hardest, cruellest people in the 

world. 
Come locusting upon us, eat us up, 
Confiscate lands, goods, money — 

Wyatt, Wyatt, 
Wake, or the stout old island will be- 
come 
A rotten limb of Spain. They roar 

for you 
On Penenden Heath, a thousand of 

them — more — 
All arm'd, waiting a leader ; there's no 

glory 
Like his who saves his country : and 

you sit 
Sing-songing here; but, if I'm any 

judge. 
By God, you are as poor a poet, 

Wyatt, 
As a good soldier. 

Wyatt. You as poor a critic 

As an honest friend : you stroke me 

on one cheek. 
Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, 

Antony ! 
You know I know all this. I must 

not move 
Until I hear from Carew and the 

Duke. 
I fear the mine is fired before the 

time. 
Knyvett {showing a papei'). But here's 

some Hebrew. Faith, I half for- 
got it. 
Look ; can you make it English ? A 

strange youth 
Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, 

" Wyatt," 
And whisking round a corner, show'd 

his back 
Before I read -his face. 

Wyatt. Ha ! Courtenay's cipher. 
\Reads.'\ " Sir Peter Carew fled to 
France : it is thought the Duke will be 
taken. I am with you still ; but for 
appearance' sake, stay with the Queen. 



QUEEN MARY. 



SS5 



Gardiner knows, but the Council are 
all at odds, and the Queen hath no 
force for resistance. Move, if you 
move, at once." 

Is Peter Carew fled ? Is the Duke 

taken ? 
Down scabbard, and out sword ! and 

let Rebellion 
Roar till throne rock, and crown fall. 

No ; not that; 
But we will teach Queen Mary how to 

reign. 
Who are those that shout below there ? 
Knyvett. Why, some fifty 

That follow'd me from Penenden 

PI.eath in hope 
To hear you speak. 

Wyatt. Open the window, Knyvett ; 
The mine is fired, and I will speak to 

them. 

Men of Kent ; England of England ; 
you that nave kept your old customs 
upright, while all the rest of England 
bow'd theirs to the Norm^an, the cause 
that hath brought us together is not 
the cause of a county or a shire, but of 
this England, in whose crown our Kent 
is the fairest jewel. Philip shall not 
wed Mary ; and ye have called me to 
be your 'leader. I know Spain. I 
have been there v.-ith my father ; '' 
have seen them in their own land ; 
have marked the haughtiness of their 
nobles; the cruelty of their priests. 
If tiiis man marry our Queen, hov.-ever 
the Council and the Commons may 
fence round his ' power with restric- 
tion, he will be King, King of Eng- 
land, my masters ; and the Queen, and 
the laws, and the people, his slaves. 
What! shall we have Spain on the 
throne and in the parliament; Spain 
in the pulpit and on the law-bench ; 
Spain in all the great offices of state ; 
Spain in our ships, in our forts, in our 
houses, in our beds ? 

Crowd. No ! no ! no Spain. 

William. No Spain in our beds — 
that were worse than all. I have been 



there with old Sir Thomas, and the 
beds I know. I hate Spain. 

A Peasant. But, Sir Thomas, must 
we levy war against the Queen's 
Grace ? 

Wyatt. No, my friend ; war for the 
Queen's Grace — to save her from her- 
self and Philip — war against Spain. 
And think not we shall be alone — thou- 
sands will flock to us. The Council, 
the Court itself, is on our side. The 
Lord Chancellor himself is on our side. 
The King of France is with us; the King 
of Denmark is with us ; the world is 
with us — war against Spain ! And if 
we move not now, yet it will be known 
t^at we have moved ; and if Philip 
come to be King, O my God ! the 
rope, the rack, the thumb-screw, the 
stake, the fire. If we move not now, 
Spain moves, bribes our nobles with 
her gold, and creeps, creeps snake-like 
about our legs till we cannot move at 
all ; and ye know, my masters, that 
wherever Spain hath ruled she hath 
wither'd all beneath her. Look at the 
New World — a paradise made hell ; 
the red man, that good helpless crea- 
ture, starv'd, maim'd, flogg'd,^ flay'd, 
burn'd, boil'd, buried alive, worried by 
dogs ; and here, nearer home, the 
Netherlands, Sicily, Naples, Lom- 
bardy. I say no more — only this, their 
lot is yours. Forward to London with 
me ! forward to London ! If ye love 
your liberties or your skins, forward 
to London ! 

Crowd. Forward to London ! A 

Wyatt ! a Wyatt ! 
Wyatt. But first to Rochester, to 

take the guns 
From out the vessels lying in the river. 
Then on. 

A Peasant. Ay, but I fear we be too 

few, Sir Thomas. 
Wyatt. Not many yet. The world 

as yet, my friend. 
Is not ^half-waked ; but every parish 

tower 
Shall clang and clash alarum as we 

pass, 



556 



QUEEN MARY. 



And pour along the land, and swoll'n 

and fed 
\Yith indraughts and side-currents, in 

full force 
Roll upon London. 

Crowd. A Wyatt! a Wyatt 1 For- 
ward ! 
Knyvett. Wyatt, shall we proclaim 

Elizabeth ? 
Wyatt. I'll think upon it, Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Or Lady Jane ? 

Wyatt. No, poor soul ; no. 
Ah, gray old castle of AUington, green 

field 
Beside the brimming Medway, it may 

chance 
That I shall never look upon you 
more. 
Knyvett. Come, now, you're sonnet- 
ting again. 
Wyatt. Not I. 

I'll have my head set higher in the 

state ; 
Or — if the Lord God \y\\\ it — on the 
stake. \Exeunt. 

SCENE IL— GUILDHALL. 

Sir Thomas White [The Lord 
Mayor), LoRD William Howard, 
Sir Ralph Bagenhall, Alder- 
men and Citizens, 

White. I trust the Queen comes 

hither with her Guards. 
Hoxvard. Ay, all in arms. 

{Several of the Citizens move has- 
tily out of the hall. 
Why do they hurry out there ? 
White. My Lord, cut out the rotten 
from your apple, 
Your apple eats the better. Let them 

go- 
They go like those old Pharisees in 

John 
Convicted by their conscience, arrant 

cowards, 
Or tamperers with that treason out of 

Kent. 
When will her Grace be here ? 
Howard. In some few minutes. 



She will address your guilds and com- 
panies. 
I have striven in vain to raise a man 

for her. 
But lielp her in this exigency, make 
Your city loyal, and be the mightiest 

man 
This day in England. 

White. I am Thom.as White. 

Few things have fail'd to which I set 

my will. 
I do my most and best. 

Ho^vard. You know that after 

The Captain Brett, who went with 

your train bands 
To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to 

him 
With all his men, the Queen 'in that 

distress [traitor, 

Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the 
Feigning to treat with him about her 

marriage — 
Know too what Wyatt said. 

White. He'd sooner be, 

While this same marriage question 

was being argued. 
Trusted than trust — the scoundrel — 

and demanded 
Possession of her person and the 

Tower. 
Hoiuard. And four of her poor 

Council too, my Lord, 
As hostages. 

White. I know it. AVhat do and say 
Your Council at this hour .'' 

Hozoard. I will trust you. 

We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. 

The Council, 
The parliament as -well, are troubled 

waters ; 
And yet like Vvaters of the fen they 

know not 
Which way to flow. All hangs on her 

address. 
And upon you, Lord INIayor. 

White. How look'd the city 

When now you past it ? Quiet ? 

Harvard. Like our Council, 

Your city is divided. As we past, 
Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There 

were citizens 



QUEEN MARY. 



557 



Stood each before his shut-up booth, 

and look'd 
As grim and grave as from a funeral. 
And here a knot of ruffians all in rags, 
With execrating execrable eyes, 
Cilared at the citizen. Here was a 

young mother, 
Her" face" on flame, her red Rair all 

blown back, 
She shrilling " Wyatt," while the boy 

she held 
Mimick'd and piped her "Wyatt," as 

red as she 
In hair and cheek ; and almost elbow- 
ing her. 
So close they stood, another, mute as 

death. 
And white as her own milk; her babe 

in arms 
Had felt the faltering of his mother's 

heart. 
And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious 

Catholic, 
Mumbling and mixing up in his scared 

prayers 
Heaven and e'arth's Maries; over his 

bow'd shoulder 
Scowl'd that world-hated and world- 
hating beast, 
A haggard Anabaptist. Many such 

groups. 
The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Cour- 

tenay, 
Nay the Queen s right to reign— 'fore 

God, the rogues — 
Were freely buzz'd among them. So 

I say 
Vour city is divided, and I fear 
One scruple, this or that way, of suc- 
cess 
Would turn it thither. Wherefore 

now the Queen 
In this low pulse and palsy of the 

state, 
Br.de me to tell you that she counts on 

you 
And on myself as her tv.-o hands ; on 

you. 
In your own city, as her right, my 

Lord, 
For you are loyal. 



White. Am I Thomas White ? 

One word before sbe comes. Eliza- 
beth— 

Her name is much abused among these 
traitors. 

Where is she ? She is loved by all of 
us. 

I scarce have heart to mingle in this 
matter. 

If she should be mishandled ? 

Htnmrd. No ; she shall not. 

The Queen has written her word to 
come to court. 

Methought I smelt out Renard in the 
letter. 

And fearing for her, sent a secret mis- 
sive, 

Which told her to be sick. Happily 
or not, 

It found her sick indeed. 

White. God send her well ; 

Here comes her Royal Grace. 

Enter Guards, Mary and Gardiner. 
Sir Tho.mas White leads her to a 
raised seat on the dais. 

White. I, the Lord Mayor, and these 

our comiianies 
And guilds of London, gathered here, 

beseech 
Your Highness to accept our lowliest 

thanks 
For your most princely presence: and 

we pray 
That we, your true and loyal citizens. 
From your own royal lips, at once may 

know 
The wherefore of this coming, and so 

learn \ 

Your royal will, and do it. — I, Lord 

Mayor 
Of London, and our Guilds and Com- 
panies. 
Ma}y. In mine own person am I 

come to you, 
To tell ye what indeed ye see and 

know, 
How traitorously these rebels out of 

Kent 
Have made strong head against our- 
j selves and you. 



558 



QUEEN MARY 



\ 
They would not have me wed tlie 

Prince of Spain ; 
That was their pretext — so they spake 

at first — 
}]ut we sent divers of our Council to 

them, 
And by their answers to the question 

ask'd, 
It doth appear this marriage is the 

least 
Of all their quarrel. 
They have betrayed the treason of 

their hearts : 
Seek to possess our person, hold our 

Tower, 
Place and displace our councillors, and 

use 
Both us and them according as they 

will. 
Now what am I ye know right well — 

vour Queen ; 
To whom, when I was wedded to the 

realm 
And the realm's laws (the spousal ring 

whereof, 
Not ever to be laid aside, I wear 
Upon this finger), ye did promise full 
Allegiance and obedience to the death. 
Ye know my father was the rightful 

heir 
Of England, and his right came down 

to me, 
Corroborate by \our acts of Parlia- 
ment : 
And as ye were most loving unto 

him. 
So doubtless will ye show yourselves 

to me. 
Wherefore, ye will not brook that any 

one 
Should seize our person, occupy our 

state, 
More specially a traitor so presump I 

tuous I 

As this same Wyatt, who hath tarn- i 

per'd with ! 

A public ignorance, and, under color j 
Of such a cause as hath no color, j 

seeks I 

To bend the laws to his own will, and 

yield I 



Full scope to persons rascal and for- 
lorn. 

To make free spoil and havoc pf your 
goods. 

Now as your Prince, I say, 

I, that was never mother, cannot tell 

How mothers love their children ; yet, 
• methinks, 

A prince as naturally may love his 
people 

As these their children; and be sure 
your Queen 

So loves you, and so loving, needs 
must deem 

This love by you return'd as heartily; 

And thro' this common knot and bond 
of love, 

Doubt not they will be speedily over- 
thrown. 

As to this marriage, ye shall under- 
stand 

We made thereto no treaty of our- 
selves, [vised 

And set no foot theretoward unad- 

Of all our Privy Council ; further- 
more, 

This marriage had the assent of those 
to whom 

The king, my father, did commit his 
trust ; 

Who not alone esteemed it honorable. 

But for the wealth and glory of our 
realm, 

And all our loving subjects, most ex- 
pedient. 

As to myself, 

I am not so set on wedlock as to 
choose 

But where I list, nor yet so amorous 

That I must needs be husbanded; I 
thank God, 

I have lived a virgin, and I noway 
doubt 

But that, with God's grace. I can live 
so still. 

Vet if it might please God that I should 
leave 

Some fruit of mine own body after 
me, 

To be your king, ye would rejoice 
thereat, 



QUEEN MARY. 



559 



And it would be your comfort, as I 

trust ; 
And truly, if I either thought or knew 
This marriage should bring loss or 

danger to you, 
My subjects, or impair in any way 
This royal state of England, I would 

never 
Consent thereto, nor marry while I 

live; I 

Moreover, if this marriage should not ] 

seem, j 

Ikfore our own high Court of Parlia- \ 

ment, i 

To be of rich advantage to our realm, ! 
We will refrain, and not alone from ; 

this, 
Likewise from any other, out of which ; 
Looms the least chance of peril to our 

realm. 
Wherefore be bold, and with your law- 
ful Prince 
Stand fast against our enemies and 

yours, 
And fear them not. I fear them not. 

My Lord, 
1 leave Lord William Howard in your 

cit}-, 
To guard and keep you whole and safe 

from all 
The spoil and sackage aim'd at by 

these rebels. 
Who mouth and foam against the 

Prince of Spain. 
Voices. Long live Queen Mary ! 

. Down with Wyatt ! ' 

The Queen ! [ 

]Vhitc. Three voices from our guilds j 

and companies ! I 

\'c)u are shy and proud like English- \ 

men, my masters, j 

And will not trust your voices. Un- ' 

derstand : \ 

Your lawful Prince hath come to cast 

herself 
^^^\ loyal hearts and bosom.s, hoped to 

fall 
Into the widespread arms of fealty, 
And finds you statues. Speak at once 

—and all ! 
For whom t 



Our sovereign Ladv by King Harry's 
will ; 

The Queen of England — or the Kent- 
ish Squire .■* 

I know you loyal. Speak ! in the 
name of God ! 

The Queen of England or the rabble 
of Kent } 

The reeking dungfork master of the 
mace ! 

Your havings wasted by the scythe and 
spade — 

Your rights and charters hobnail'd 
into slush — 

Your houses fired — your gutters bub- 
bling blood — 
Acdamation. No! No! The Queen! 

the Queen ! 
White. Your Highness hears 

This burst and bass of loyal harmony, 

And how we each and all of us ab- 
hor [volt 

The venomous, bestial, devilish re- 

Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now, 
make oath 

To raise your Highness thirty thou- 
sand men, 

And arm and strike as with one hand, 
and brush 

This Wyatt from our shoulders, like a 
flea 

That might have leapt upon us una- 
wares. 

Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, 
all, 

W^ith all your trades, and guilds, and 
companies. 
Citizens. W^e swear ! 
Mary. We thank your Lordship and 
your loyal city. 

\Exit AL\RY attended. 
White. I trust this day, thro' God, I 

have saved the crown. 
First Alderman. Ay, so my Lord of 
Pembroke in command 

Of all her force be safe ; but there are 
doubts. 
Second Aldervian. I hear that Gar- 
diner, coming with the Queen, 

And meeting Pembroke, bent to his 
saddle-bow. 



56o 



QUEEN MARY. 



As if to win the man by flattering 

him. 
Is he so safe to fight upon her side ? 
First Alderman If not, there's no 

man safe. 
While. Yes, Thomas White. 

1 am safe enough ; no man need flatter 

nie. 
Saoiid Alderman. Nay, no man 

need ; but ihd you mark our 

Queen ? 
The color freely play'd into her face, 
And the half sight which makes her 

look so stern, 
Seem'd thro' thai dim dilated world of 

heis, [her 

To read our faces , 1 have never seen 
So queenly or so goodly. 

White. Courage, sir, 

That makes or man or woman look 

their goodliest 
Die like the lorn (ox dumb, but never 

whine 
Like that poor heart, Northumberland, 

at the block. 
Bai;e)ihalL The man had children, 

and he whined for those. 
Methmks most men are but poor- 
hearted, else 
Should we so doat on courage, were it 

commoner 'i 
The Queen stands up, and speaks for 

her own self ; 
And all men cry, she is queenly, she is 

goodly. 
Yet she's no goodlier; tho' my Lord 

Mayor here, 
By his own rule, he hath been so bold 

to-day, 
Should look more goodly than the rest 

of us 
While Goodly ? I feel most goodly 

heart and hand, 
And strong to throw ten Wyatts and 

all Kent. 
Ha! ha! sir ; but you jest ; I love it : 

a jest 
In time of danger shows the pulses 

even 
Be merry! yet, Sir Ralph, you look 

but sad. 



I dare avouch you'd stand up for 

yourself, 
Tho' all the world should bay like 

winter wolves. 
Bagenhall. Who knows ? the man 

is proven by the hour. 
White. 'J'he man should make the 

hour, not this the man ; 
And 'Ihomas White will prove this 

Thomas Wyatt, 
And he will prove an Iden to this 

Cade, 
And he will plav the Walworth to this 

Wat ; 
Come, sirs, we prate, hence all — 

gather your men — 
Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to 

Southwark ; 
I'll have the drawbridge hewn into the 

Thames, 
And see the citizen arm'd. Good day ; 

good day. \Exit Whii-'e 

Bagenhall. One of much outdoor 

bluster. 
Ho-iuard. For all that, 
Most honest, l)rave, and skilful , and 

his wealth 
A fountain of perennial alms — his fault 
So thoroughly to believe in his own 

self 
Bagenhall. Yet thoroughly to believe 

in one's own self, 
So one's own self be thorough, were 

to do 
Great things, my lord. 

Hozvard. It may be. 

Bagenhall. I have heard 

One of your council ficer and jeer at 

him. 
Howard. The nursery-cocker'd child 

Vv'ill jeer at aught 
That may seem strange beyond his 

nursery. 
The statesman that shall jeer and fleer 

at men, 
ALakes enemies for himself and for his 

king ; 
And if he jeer not seeing the true man 
Behind his folly, he is thrice the fool ; 
And if he see the man and still will 

jeer, 



QUEEN MARY. 



561 



He is child and fool, and traitor to the 

State. 
Who is he ? Let me shun him, 

Bagenhall. Nay, my Lord, 

He is damn'd enough already. 

Howard. I must set 

The guard at Ludgate. I''are you well. 

Sir Ralph. 

Bagenhall . "Who knows.-"' I am 

for England. But who knows, 

That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, 

and the Pope, 
Whether I be for Wyatt, or the 
Queen .'' ^Exeunt, 



SCENE HI.— LONDON BRIDGE. 

Enter Sir Thomas Wyati and 
Brett. 

Wyatt. Brett, when the Duke 'of 

Norfolk moved against us 
Thou criedst " a Wyatt," and flying to 

our side 
Left his all bare, for which I love thee, 

Brett. 
Have for thine asking aught that I can 

give. 
For thro' thine help we are come to 

London Bridge •, 
But how to cross it balks me. I feai 

we cannot. 
Brett. Nav, hardly, save by boat, 

swimming, or wings. 
Wyatt. Last night I climb'd into the 

gate- house, Brett, 
And scared the gray old porter and his 

wife. ^ 

And then I crept along the gloom and 

saw 
They had hewn the dvawbridge down 

into the river. 
It roll'd as black as death; and that 

same tide 
WMiich, coming with our coming, 

seem'd to smile 
And sparkle like our fortune as thou 

saidst. 
Ran sunless down, and moan'd against 

the -)iers. 

36 



But o'er the chasm I saw Lord Wil- 
liam Howard 

By torchlight, and his guard ; four 
guns gaped at me, 

Black, silent mouths : had Howard 
spied me there 

And made them speak, as well he 
might have done, 

Their voice had left mc none to tell 
you this. 

What shall we do ? 

Brett. On somehow. To go back 

Were to lose all. 

Wyatt. On over London Bridge 

W^e cannot . stay we cannot , there is 
ordnance 

On the W'hite Tower and on the 
Devil's Tower, 

And pointed full at Southwark ; we 
must round 

By Kingston Bridge. 
Brett. Ten miles about. 

Wyatt. Ev'n so 

But I have notice from our partisans 

Within the city that they will stand by 
us 

If Ludgate can be reach'd by dav^'n to- 
morrow. 

Enter one ^ Wvatt's nioi. 

Man. Sir Thomas, I ve found this 
paper, pray your worship read ir ; I 
knov/ not my letters ; the old priests 
taught me nothing. 

iVyatt [reads). " Whosoever \\\\\ 
apprehend the traitor Thomas Wyatt 
shall have a hundred pounds for re- 
ward." 

Man. Is that it ? That's a big lot of 

money. 
Wyatt. Ay, ay, my friend ; not read 
it } 'tis not written 
Half plain enough. Give me a piece 
of paper ! 

{W7-ites " Thom.\s Wyatt " hvg^. 
There, any may can read that. 

[^Sticks it in his cap. 
Brett. But that's foolhardy. 

Wyatt. No ! boldness, which will 
give my followers boldness. 



562 



QUEEN MARY. 



E)iler Man with a prisoner. 
Mail. We found him, your worship, 
a ])lundering o' Bishop Winchester's 
house; he saj's he's a poor gentleman. 
Wyalt. Gentleman, a thief ! Go 
hang him. Shall we make 
Tliose that we come to serve our sharp- 
est foes .-* 
J3rett. Sir Thomas — 
Wyatt. Hang him, I say. 

Brett. Wyatt, but now you promised 

me a boon. 
Wyatt. Ay, and I warrant this fine 

fellow's life. 
Brett. Ev'n so ; he was my neighbor 
once in Kent. 
He's poor enough, has drunk and gam- 
bled out 
All that he had, and gentleman he 

was. 
We have been glad together ; let him 
live. 
Hyatt. He has gambled for his life, 
and lost, he hangs. 
No, no, my word's my word. Take 

thy poor gentleman ! 
Gamble thyself at once out of my 

sight, 
Or I will dig thee with my dagger. 

Away ! 
Women and children ■ 

Eider afroivdof^o^iY.^ atid Chil- 
dren 

First Wcviait. O Sir Thomas, Sir 
Thomas, pray you go away. Sir 
Thomas, or you'll make the White 
Tower a black 'un for us this blessed 
day. He'll be the death on us ; and 
you'll set the Devil's Tower a-spitting, 
and he'll smash all our bits o' things 
worse than Philip o' Spain. 

Suond Woman Don't ye now go to 
think we be for Philip o' Spain. 

Third Woman. No, we know that 
ye be come to kill the Queen, and 
we'll pray for you on all our bended 
knees. But o' God's mercy don't ye 
kill the Queen here, Sir Thomas ; look 
ye, here's little Dickon, and little 
Robin, and little Jenny — though she's 



but a side-cousin — and all on our 
knees, we pray you to kill the Queen 
farther off, Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. My friends, I have not come 
to kill the Queen 
Or here or there : I come to save you 

all. 
And I'll go farther off. 

Croiad. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be 
beholden to you, and we'll pray for 
you on our bended knees till our lives' 
end. 

JVyatt. Be happy, I am your friend. 

To Kingston, forward ! 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. — ROOM IN THE 
GATE-HOUSE OF WESTMIN- 
STER PALACE. 

]\Iary, Alice, Gardiner, Renard, 
Ladies. 

Alice O madam, if Lord Pembroke 

should be false ? 
]\Iary. No, girl ; most brave and 

loyal, brave and loyal. 
Plis breaking with Northumberland 

broke Northumberland. 
At the park gate he hovers with our 

guards. 
These Kentish ploughmen cannot 

break the guards. 

Enter Messenger. 

messenger. Wyatt, your Grace, hath 
broken thro' the guards 
And gone to Ludgate. 

Gardiner Madam, I much fear 

That all islost;«Lut we can save your 

Grace : 
The river still is free. I do beseech 

you, 
There yet is time, take boat and pass 
to Windsor. 
Mary. I pass to Windsor and I lose 

my crown. 
Gardiner. Pass, then, I pray your 

Highness, to the Tower. 
Mary. I shall but be their prisoner 
in tlie Tower. 



QUEEN MARY. 



Bk 



Cries [luithout). The traitor ! trea- 
son ! Pembroke ! 
Ladies. Treason ! treason ! 

Mary. Peace. 
False to Northumberland, is he false 

to me ? 
Bear witness, Renard, that I live and 

die 
The true and faithful bride of Philip — 

A sound 
Of feet and voices thickening hither — 

blows — 
Hark, there is battle at the palace 

gates, 
And I will out upon the galler}-. 

Ladies. No, no, your Grace ; see 

there the arrows flying. 
Mary. I ani Harry's daughter, Tu- 
dor, and not fear. 

\Goes out on the gallery. 
Tlie guards are all driven in, skulk 

into corners 
Like rabbits to their holes. A gra- 
cious guard 
Truly ; shame on them, they have shut 
the gates ! 

Enter Sir Robert Southwell. 
Scuthicell. The porter, please your 
Grace, hath shut the gates 
On friend and foe. Your gentlemen- 
at-arms, 
If this be not your Grace's order, cry 
To have the gates set wide again, and 

they 
AViih their good battle-axes will do 

you right 
Against all traitors. 
Mary. They are the flower of Eng- 
land; set the gates wide. 

\^Exit Southwell. 
Enter Courtenay. 
Coiirtenay. All lost, all lost, ail 
yielded ; a barge, a barge, 
The Queen must to the Tower. 

Majy. . Whence come you, sir } 

Courtenay. From Charing Cross; 
the rebels broke us there, 
And I sped hither with what haste I 

might 
To save my royal cousin. 



Mary. Where is Pembroke > 

Courtenay. I left him somewhere in 

the thick of it. 
Mary. Left him and fled ; and thou 
that wouldst be King, 
And hast nor heart nor honor. I my- 
self 
Will down into the battle and there 

bide 
The upshot of my quarrel, or die with 

those 
That are no cowards and no Courte- 
nays. 
Courtenay. I do not love your 
Grace should call me coward.' 

Enter another Messenger. 

Messenger. Over, your Grace, all 

crush'd ; the brave Lord William 

Thrust him from Ludgate, and the 

traitor flving 
To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice 

Berkeley 
Was taken prisoner. 

Mary. To the Tower with hijn ! 
Messenger. 'Tis said he told Sir 
Maurice there was one 
Cognizant of this, and party thereunto. 
My Lord of Devon. 

Mary. To the Tower with him ! 

Courtenay. O la, the Tower, the 
Tower, always the Tower, 
I shall grow into it — I shall be the 
Tower. 
Mary. Your Lordship may not 
have so long to wait. 
Remove him ! 

Coiirtenay. La, to whistle out mv 
life, 
And carve my coat upon the walls 
again ! 

{Exit Courtenay, guarded. 
Messenger. Also this Wyatt did 
confess the Princess 
Cognizant thereof, and party there- 
unto. 
Mary. Vvliat ? \vhom — whom did 

you say .? 
Messejtgey. Elizabeth, 
Your royal sister. 

Marv. To the Tower with her 1 



5^4 



QUEEN MARY. 



My foes are at my feet and I am 
Queen. 
Gardiner and Jier Ladies kneel 
to her. 
Gardiner {rising). There let them 
lie, your footstool ! {Aside). Can 
I strike 
Elizabeth ? — not now and save the life 
Of Devon : if I save him, he and his 
Are bound to me — may strike here- 
after. {Aloud ) Madam, 
What Wyatt said, or what they said he 

said. 
Cries of the moment and the street — 
Mary. He said it. 

Gardiner. Your courts of justice will 

determine that. 
Renard {advancing). I trust by this 
your highness will allow 
Some spice of wisdom in my telling 

you. 
When last we talk'd, that Philip would 

not come 
Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke 

of Suffolk 
And Lady Jane had left us. 
Mary. They shall die. 

Renard. And your so loving sister 1 
Mary. She shall die. 

My foes are at my feet, and Philip 
King. [Exe2int. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. -THE CONDUIT IN 
GRACE-CHURCH, 

Painted ivith the Nine Worthies, among 
them King Henry VIII. holding a 
book, on it inscribed " Verbitm DeiP 

Enter SiR RALPH Bagenhall and 
Sir Thomas Stafford. 

Bagenhall. A hundred here and 
hundreds hang'd in Kent. 

The tigress had unsheath'd her nails 
at last. 

And Renard and the Chancellor 
sharpen'd them. 



In every London street a gibbet stood. 
They are down to-day. Here by this 

house was one ; 
'i'he traitor husband dangled at the 

door. 
And when the traitor wife came out 

for bread 
To still the petty treason therewithin, 
Her cap would brush his heels. 

Stafford. It is Sir Ralph, 

And muttering to himself as hereto- 
fore. 
Sir, see you aught up yonder ? 

Bagenhall. I miss something. 

The tree that only bears dead fruit is 
gone. 
Stafford. What tree, sir ? 
Bagenhall. Well, the tree in Virgil, 
sir, 
That bears not its own apples. 

Stafford. What ! the gallows ? 

Bagenhall. Sir, this dead fruit was 
ripening overmuch, 
And had to be removed lest living 

Spain 
Should sicken at dead England. 

Stafford. Not so dead, 

But that a shock may rouse her. 

Baf^enhall. I believe 

Sir Thomas Stafford ? 
Stafford. I am ill disguised. 

Bagenhall. Well, are you not in 

peril here ? 
Stafford. I think so. 
I came to feel the pulse of England, 

whether 
It beats hard at this marriage. Did 
you see it ? 
Bagenhall. Stafford, I am a sad 
man and a serious. 
Far liefer had I in my country hall 
Been reading some old book, with 

mine old hound 
Couch'd at my hearth, and mine old 

flask of wine 
Beside me, than have seen it, yet I saw 
it. 
Stafford. Good ; was it splendid ? 
Bagenhall. Ay, if Dukes and Earls, 
And Counts, and sixty Spanish cava- 
liers, 



QVEEN MARY. 



565 



Some six or seven Bishops, diamonds, 

pearls, 
That royal commonplace too, cloth of 

gold. 
Could make it so. 

Stafford. And what was Mary's 

dress ? 
Bagenhall. Good faith, I was too 

sorry for the woman 
To mark the dress. She wore red 

shoes! 
Stafford. Red shoes ! 

Bagenhall. Scarlet, as if her feet 

were wash'd in blood, 
As if she had waded in it. 

Stafford. Were your eyes 

So bashful that you look'd no higher ? 

Bagetihall. A diamond, 

And Philip's gift, as proof of Philip's 

love, 
Who hath not any for any, — tho' a 

true one. 
Blazed false upon her heart. 

Stafford. But this proud Prince — 
Bagenhall. Nay, he is King, you 

know, the King of Naples. 
The father ceded Naples, that the son 
Being a King, might wed a Queen — O 

he 
Flamed in brocade — white satin his 

trunk hose. 
Inwrought with silver, — on his neck a 

collar. 
Gold, thick with diamonds; hanging 

down from this 
The Golden Fleece — and round his 

knee, misplaced. 
Our English Garter, studded wdth 

great emeralds. 
Rubies, I know not what. Have you 

had enough 
Of all this gear ? 

Stafford. Ay, since you hate the 

telling it. 
How look'd the Queen ? 

Bagenhall. No fairer for her jewels. 
And I could see that as the new-made 

couple 
Came from the Minster, moving side 

by side 
Beneath one canopy, ever and anon 



She cast on him a vassal smile of love. 
Which Philip v/ith a glance of some 

distaste. 
Or so methought, return'd. I may be 

wrong, sir. 
This marriage will not hold. 

Stafford. I think with you. 

The King of France will help to break 

it. 
Bagenhall. France ! 

We once had half of France, and 

hurl'd our battles 
Into the heart of Spain ; but England 

now 
Is but a ball chuck'd between France 

and Spain, 
His in whose hand she drops ; Harry 

of Bolingbroke 
Had holpen Richard's tottering throne 

to stand. 
Could Harry have foreseen that all 

our nobles [field. 

Would perish on the civil slaughter- 
And leave the people naked to the 

crown. 
And the crown naked to the people; 

the crown 
Female, too ! Sir, no woman's regimen 
Can save us. We are fallen, and as I 

think, 
Never to rise again. 

Stafford. You are too black- 
blooded. 
I'd make a move myself to hinder 

that: 
I know some lusty fellows there in 

France. 
Bagenhall. You would but make 

us weaker, Thomas Stafford. 
Wyatt was a good soldier, yet he 

fail'd. 
And strengthen'd Philip. 

Stafford. Did not his last breath 
Clear Courtenay andthe Princess from 

the charge 
Of being his co-rebels .'' 

Bagenhall. Ay, but then 

What such a one as Wyatt says is 

nothing : 
We have no men among us. The 

new Lords 



$66 



QUEEN MARY. 



Are quieted with their sop of Abbey • 
lands, 

And ev'n before the Queen's face 
Gardiner buys them 

With Philip's gold. All greed, no 
faith, no courage ! 

Why, ev'n the haughty prince, Nor- 
thumberland, 

The leader of our Reformation, knelt 

And blubber' d like a lad, and on the 
scaffold 

Recanted, and resold himself to Rome. 
Stafford. I swear you do your 
country wrong, Sir Ralph. 

I know a set of exiles over there, 

Dare-devils, that would eat fire and 
spit it out 

At Philip's beard : they pillage Spain 
already. 

The French king winks at it. An 
hour will come 

W^ien they will sweep her from the 
seas. No men ? [man ? 

Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true 

Is not Lord William Howard a true 
man ? 

Yea. you yourself, altho'you are black- 
blooded : 

And I, by God, l)e]ieve myself a man. 

Ay, even in the church there is a man — 

Cranmer. 

Fly, wouM he not, when all men bade 
him fly. 

And what a letter he wrote against the 
Pope 1 

There's a brave man, if any. 

Bagenhall. Ay ; if it hold. 

Croiod {coiui/ig- on). God save their 

Graces ! 
Stafford. Bagenhall, I see 

The Tudor green and white. {Tnun- 
pets.) They are coming now. 

And here's a crowd as thick as herring- 
shoals. 
Bagenhall. Be limpets to this pillar, 
or we are torn 

Down the strong wave of brawlers. 
Crowd. God save their Graces. 
\Proccssion of Tnwipcters, Javelin- 
7)ien, etc. ; then Spanish and 
Fleinish Nobles inter?ni}tgled. 



Stafford. Worth seeing, Bagenhall ! 
These black dog-Dons 
Garb themselvesjjravely. W' ho's the 

long-face there, 
Looks very Spain of very Spain ? 

Bagenhall. The Duke 

Of Alva, an iron soldier. 

Stafford. And the Dutchman, 

Now laughing at some jest ? 

Bagenhall. William of Orange, 

William the Silent. 

Stafford. Why do they call him so ? 
Bagenhall. He keeps, they say, some 
secret that may cost 
Philip his life. 
Stafford. But then he looks so merry. 
Bagenhall. I cannot tell you why 

they call him so. 
The King and QuEEN/rt-j-.c, attended 
by Peers of the Realm, Officers of 
State, etc. Cannon shot off. 
Croivd. Philip and Mary, Philip and 
Mary. 
Long live the King and Queen, Philip 
and Mary. 
Stafford. They smile, as if content 

with one another. 
Bagenhall. A smile abroad is oft a 
scowl at home. 

[King and QvJLES pass on. Pro- 
cession. 
First Citizen. I thought this Philip 
had been one of those black devils of 
Spain, but he hath a yellow beard. 
Seco)id Citizen. Not red like Iscariot's. 
First Citizen. Like a carrot's, as 
thou sayst, and English carrot's better 
than Spanish licorice ; but I thought 
he was a beast. 

Third Citizen. Certaiii I had heard 
that every Spaniard carries a tail like 
a devil under his trunk hose. 

Tailor. Ay, but see what trunk 
hoses ! Lord ! they be fine ; I never 
stitch'd none such. They make amends 
for the tails. 

Fourth Citizen. Tut ! every Spanish 
priest will tell you that all English 
heretics have tails. 

Fifth Citizen. Death and the Devil 
— if he find I have one — 



QUEEN MARY. 



567 



Fourth Citizen. Lo ! thou hast call'd 
them up ! here they come — a pale 
horse for Death and Gardiner for the 
Devil. 

Enter Gardiner, turning hack from 
the procession. 
Gardiner. Knave, wilt thou wear thy 

cap before the Queen ? 
Man. My Lord, I stand so squeezed 
among the crowd 
I cannot lift my hands unto my head. 
Gardiner. Knock off his cap there, 
some of you about him ! 
See there be others that can use their 

hands. 
Thou art one of Wyatt's men } 

Man. No, my Lord, no. 

Gardijier. Thy name, thou knave ! 
JSTan. I am nobody, my Lord. 

Gardiner [shouting). God's passion ! 

knave, thy name .'' 
Man, I have ears to hear. 

Gardiner. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee 
ears to hear. 
Find out his name and bring it me [to 
Attendant). 
Attendant. Ay, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Knave, thou shalt lose 
thine ears and find thy tongue, 
And shalt be thankful if I leave thee 
that. 

[Ccfuing before the Conduit. 
The conduit painted — the nine worthies 

~ay! 
But then what s here ? King Harry 

with a scroll. 
Ila — Vcrbum Dei — verbum — word of 

Godl 
God's passion ! do you know the knave 
that painted it.^ 
Attendajit. I do, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Tell him to paint it out, 
And put some fresh device in lieu of 

it— 
A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir ; 

ha? 
There is no heresy there. 

Attendant. I will, my Lord. 

The man shall paint a pair of gloves. 
I am sure 



(Knowing the^ man) he wrought it 

ignorantlV, 
And not from any malice. 

Gardiner. Word of God 

In English ! over this the brainless 

loons 
That cannot spell Esaias from St. 

Paul, 
Make themselves diunk and mad, fly 

out and flare 

Into rebellions. I'll have their Bibles 

burnt. [what ! 

The Bible is the priest's. Ay ! fellow. 

Stand staring at me ! shout, you gaping 

rogue. 

Man. I have, my Lord, shouted till 

I am hoarse. 
Gardiner. ^Vhat hast thou shouted, 

knave 1 
Man. Long live Queen Mary. 

Gardiner. Knave, their be two. 
There be both King and Queen, 
Philip and Mary. Shout. 

Ma7i. Nay, but, my Lord, 

The Queen comes first, Mary and 
Philip. 
Gardiner. Shout, then, 

Mary and Philip. 

Man. Mary and Philip ! 

Gardiner, Now, 

Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, 

shout for mine ! 
Philip and Mary! 

Man, INIust it be so, my Lord ? 

Gardiner. Ay, knave. 
Ma?i, Philip and Mary ! 

Gardiner. I distrust thee. 

Thine is a half voice and a lean assent. 
What is thy name .'' 
Majt. Sanders. 

Gardiner. What else } 

Man. Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner. Where dost thou live.? 
Man. In Cornhill. 

Gardiner. Where, knave, where ? 
Man. Sign of the Talbot. 
Gardiner. Come to me to-morrow. — 
Rascal ! — this land is like a hill of fire, 
One crater opens when another shuts. 
.But so I get the laws against the 
heretic, 



568 



QUEEN MARY. 



Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
And others of our Parliament, revived, 
I will show fire on my side— stake and 

fire — 
Sharp work and short. The knaves 

are easily cow'd. 
Follow their Majesties. 

\Exit. The cro7iHi folLiuing 
Bagenhall. As proud as Becket. 

Stafford. You would not have him 

murder 'd as Leckct was ? 
BageuhaU, No— murder fathers niur- 
der ; but I say 
There is no man — there was one 

woman with us — 
It was a sin to love her married, dead 
\ cannot choose but love her. 

Stafford. -fLady Jane ? 

Crowd [going off). God save their 

Graces. 
Stafford, D;d you see her die ? 

Bagenhall. No, no ; her innocent 
blood had blinded me. 
You call me too black-blooded — true 

enough 
Her dark dead blood is in my heart 

with mine. 
If ever I cry out against the Pope, 
Her dark dead blood that ever moves 

with mine 
Will stir the living tongue and make 
the crv. 
Stafford. Yet doubtless you can tell 

me how she died .-* 
Bagenhall. Seventeen — and knew 
eight languages — in music 
Peerless — her needle perfect, and her 

learning 
Beyond the churchmen ; yet so meek, 

so modest. 
So wife-like humble to the trivial boy 
Mismatch'd with her for policy ! I have 

heard 
She would not take a last farewell of 

him, 
She fear'd it might unman him for his 

end. 
She could not be unmann'd — no, nor 

out-woman'd — 
Seventeen — a rose of grace ! 



Girl never breathed to rival such a 

rose ; 
Rose never blew that equall'd such a 

bud. 
Stafford. Pray you go on. 
Bagenhall. She came upon the scaf- 
fold, 
i And said she was condemn'd to die for 
j treason ; 

j She had but follow'd the device of 
i those 

Her nearest kin : she thought they 

knew the laws. 
But for herself, she knew but little law, 
And nothing of the titles to the crown ; 
She had no desire for that, and wrung 

her hands, 
And trusted God would save her thro' 

the blood 
Of Jesus Christ alone. 

Stafford. Pray you go on. 

Bagenhall. Then knelt and said the 

Miserere Mei — 
But all in English, mark you; rose 

again, 
And when the headsman pray'd to be 

forgiven, 
Said, " You will give me my true crown 

at last, [she, 

But do it quickly ; " then all wept but 
Who changed not color when she saw 

the block, 
But ask'd hini, childlike : " Will you 

take it off 
Before I lay me down 'i " " No, 

madam," he said, 
Gasping ; and when her innocent eyes 

were bound. 
She, with her poor blind hands feeling 

— " where is it .'' 
Where is it .? " — You must fancy that 

which follow'd, 
If you have heart to do it ! 

Crowd [in the distance). God save 

their Graces ! 
Stafford. Their Graces, our dis' 

graces ! God confound them I 
Why she's grown bloodier 1 when I 

last was here, 
This was against her conscience — 

would be murder I 



QUEEN MARY 



;69 



Bagenhall. The " Thou shalt do no 

murder," which God's hand 
Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd 

out pale — 
She could not make it white — and over 

that, 
Traced in the blackest text of Hell — 

" Thou shalt ! " 
And sign'd it — Mary ! 

Stafford. Philip and the Pope 

Must have sign'd too. I hear this 

Legate's coming 
To bring us absolution from the Pope. 
The Lords and Commons will bow 

down before him — 
You are of the house .'' what will vou 

do, Sir Ralph ? 
Eagenhall. And why should I be 

bolder than the rest, 
Or honester than all .'' 

Stafford. But, sir, if I — 

And over sea they say this state of 

yours 
Ilath no more mortise than a tower of 

cards; 
And that a puff would do it — then if I 
And others made that move I touch'd 

upon, 
Back'd by the power of France, and 

landing here. 
Came with a sudden splendor, shout, 

and show, 
And dazzled men and deai^n'd by 

some bright 
Loud venture, and the people so un- 
quiet — 
And I the race of murder'd Bucking- 
ham — 
Not for myself, but for the kingdom — 

Sir, 
I trust that you would fight along with 

us. 
Bagenhall. No ! you would fling 

your lives into the gulf. 
Stafford. But if this Philip, as he's 

like to do. 
Left Mary a wife-widow here alone, 
Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads 

hither 
To seize upon the forts and fleet, and 

make us 



A Spanish province ; would you not 
fight then ? 
Bagenhall. I think I should fight 

then. 
Stafford. I am sure of it. 

Hist ! there's the face coming on here 

of one 
Who knows me. I must leave you. 

Fare you well, 
You'll hear of me again. 

Bagenhall. ^Tpon the scaffold. 

•, \Exeiint. 
ih- 

SCENE H.— ROOM IN WHITE- 
HALL PALACE. 

AL\RY. Enter Philip and Cardinal 
Pole. 

Pole. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Ben- 

edicta tu in mulieribus. 
A/arj/. Loyal and royal cousin, hum- 
blest thanks. 

Had you a pleasant voyage up the 
river .'' 
Bole. We had your royal barge, and 
that same chair. 

Or rather throne of purple, on the 
deck. 

Our silver cross sparkled before the 
prow. 

The ripples twinkled at their diamond- 
dance. 

The boats that follow'd, were as glow- 
ing gay 

As regal gardens ; and your flocks of 
swans, 

As fair and white as angels ; and your 
shores 

Wore in mine e3'es the green of Para- 
dise. 

My foreign friends, who dream'd us 
blanketed 

In ever-closing fog, were much amazed 

To find as fair a sun as might have 
flash'd 

Upon their Lake of Garda fire the 
Thames ; 

Our voyage by sea was all but miracle ; 

And here the river flowing from the 
sea, 



570 



QUEEN MARY. 



Not toward it (for tlicy thought not of 

our tides), 
Seem'd as a happy miracle to make 

glide — 
III quiet — home your banish'd coun- 
tryman. 
Mary. We heard that you were sick 
, in Flanders, cousin. 
Pole. A dizziness. 
Ma7y. And how came you round 

again .? 
Pole. The scarlet thread of Rahab 

saved her life ; 
And mine, a little letting of the blood. 
Mary. Well ? now .-* 
Pole. Ay, cousin, as the heathen 

giant 
Had but to touch the ground, his force 

return'd — 
Thus, after twenty years of banish- 
ment. 
Feeling my native land beneath my 

foot, 
I said thereto ; " Ah, native land of 

mine, 
Thou art much beholden to this foot 

of mine. 
That hastes with full commission from 

the Pope 
To absolve thee from thy guilt of 

heresy. 
Thou hast disgraced me and attainted 

me, 
And mark'd me ev'n as Cain, and I 

return 
As Peter, but to bless thee : make me 

well." 
Methinks tlie good land heard me, for 

to-day 
My heart beats twenty, when I see you, 

cousin. 
Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's 

death, 
How oft hath Peter knock'd at Mary's 

gate ! 
And Mary would have risen and let 

him in, 
But, Mary, there were those within the 

house 
Who would not have it. 
Mary. True, good cousin Pole ; 



And there were also those without the 

house r 

Who would not have it. 

Pole. I believe so, cousin. 

State-policy and church-policy are con- 
joint. 
But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. 
I fear the Emperor much misvalued 

me. 
But all is well ; 'twas ev'n the will of 

God, [now. 

Who, waiting till the time had ripen'd, 
Makes me his mouth of holv greeting. 

" Hail, 
Daughter of God, and saver of the 

faith. 
Sit benedictus fructus ventris tui ! " 
Mary. Ah, heaven ! 
Pole. Unwell, your Grace ? 

Mary. No, cousin, happy — 

Happy to see you ; never yet so 

happy 
Since I was crown'd. 

Pole. Sweet cousin, you forget 

That long low minster where you gave 

your hand 
To this great Catholic King. 

Philip. Well said. Lord Legate. 

Maiy. Na}', not well said; I thought 

of you, my liege, 
Ev'n as I spoke. 

Philip. Ay, Madam ; my I ord Paget 
Waits to present our Council to the 

Legate. 
Sit dovv^n here, all ; Madam, bc'iween 

us you. 
Pole. Lo, now you are cnc'osod with 

boards of cedar, 
Our little sister of the Song of Songs ! 
Vou are doubly fenced ard shielded 

sitting here 
Between the two most high-set thrones 

on earth, 
The Emperor's highnesci happ'.fy sym- 
bol I'd by 
The King your husband, the Tope's 

Holiness 
By mine own self. 

Mary. True, cousin, I am happy. 
When will you tha^ wt .«':.mp:on x>oth 

our houses 



QUEEN MARY. 



571 



To take his absolution from your lips 
And be regather'd to the Papal fold ? 
Pole. In Britain's calendar the bright- 
est day- 
Beheld our rough forefathers break 

their Gods, 
And clasp the faith in Christ ; but af- 
ter that 
Might not St. Andrew's be her hap- 
piest day ? 
Mary. Then these shall meet upon 
St. Andrew's day. 

Enter Paget, who presents the Coun- 
cil. Dumb shozu. 
Pole. I am an old man wearied with 
my journey, 
Ev'n with my joy. Permit me to with- 
draw. 
To Lambeth ? 

Philip. Ay, Lambeth has ousted 
Cranmer. 
It was not meet the heretic swine 

should live 
In Lambeth. 
Mary. There or anywhere, or at all, 
Philip. We have had it swept and 

garnish'd after him. 
Pole. Not for the seven devils to en- 
ter in 1 
Philip. No, for we trust they parted 

in the swine. 
Pole. True, and I am the Angel of 
the Pope. 
Farewell, your Graces. 

Philip. Nay, not here — to me ; 

I will go with you to the waterside. 
Pole. Not be my Charon to the 

counter side ? 
Philip. No, my Lord Legate, the 

Lord Chancellor goes. 
Pole. And unto no dead world ; but 
Lambeth palace. 
Henceforth a centre of the living faith. 
[Exeunt Philip, Pole, Paget, etc. 
Manet Mary. 
Mary. He hath awaked I he hath 
awaked ! 
He stirs within the darkness ! 
Oh, Philip, husband ! now thy love to 
mine 



Will cling more close, and those bleak 
manners thaw, 

That make me shamed and tongue- 
tied in my love. 

The second Prince of Peace — 

The great unborn defender of the 
Faith, 

Who will avenge me of mine ene- 
mies — 

He comes, and my star rises. 

The stormy Wyatts and Northumber- 
lands. 

The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, 

And all her fieriest partisans — are 
pale , 

Before my star ! 

The light of this new learning wanes 
and dies : 

The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius 
fade 

Into the deathless hell which is their 
doom 
! Before my star ! [Ind ! 

Plis sceptre shall go forth from Ind to 

His sword shall hew the heretic peo- 
ples down ! 

His faith shall clothe the world that 
will be his. 

Like universal air and sunshine ! 
Open, 

Ye everlasting gates ! The King is 
here ! — 

My star, my son ! 

Enter Philip, Duke of Alva, etc. 

Oh, Philip, come with me; 

Good news have I to tell you, news to 
make 

Both of us happy — ay, the Kingdom 
too. 

Nay come with me — one moment ! 
Philip {to Alva). More than that ; 

There was one here of late — William 
the Silent 

They call him— he is free enough in 
talk, 

But tells me nothing. You will be, 
we trust, 

Some time the viceroy of those prov- 
inces — 

He must deserve his surname better. 



572 



QUEEN MARY. 



Alva. Ay, sir ; 

Inherit the Great Silence. 

Philip. True-; the provinces 

Are hard to rule and must be hardly 
ruled ; rind, 

Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty 
All hollow'd out with stingy heresies ; 
And for their heresies, Alva, they will 

fight : 
You must break them or they break 
you. 
Alva {proudly). The first. 

Philip. Good! 
Well, Madam, this new happiness of 
mine. \_Exeiint. 

Enter Three Pages. 

First Page. News, mates ! a miracle, 
a miracle ! news ! 
The bells must ring ; Te Deums must 

be sung ; 
The Queen hath felt the motion of her 
babe ! 
Second Page. Ay ; but see here ! 
First Page. See what ? 

Second Page. This paper, Dickon, 
I found it fluttering at the palace 

gates : — 
" The Queen of England is delivered 
of a dead dog ! " 
Third Page. These are the things 

that madden her. Fie upon it. 
First Page. Ay, but I hear she hath 
a dropsy, lad. 
Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call 
it. 
Third Page. Fie on her dropsy, so 
she have a dropsy ! 
I know that she was ever sweet to me. 
First Page. For thou and thine are 

Roman to the core. 
Third Page. So thou and thine must 

be. Takfe heed ! 
First Page. Not T, 

And whether this flash of news be 

false or true. 
So the wine run, and there be revelry, 
Content am I. Let all the steeples 

clash. 
Till the sun dance, as upon Easter 
Day. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— GREAT HALL IN 
WHITEHALL. 

At the far end a dais. On this three 
chairs, two tinder one canopy for 
Mary and Philip, another on the 
right of these for POLE. Under the 
dais on Pole's side, ranged along the 
ivall, sit all the Spiritual Peers, and 
along the ivall opposite, all the Tem- 
poral. The Commons on cross benches 
in front, a line of approach to the 
dais between thein. In the foreground 
Sir Ralph Bagenhall and other 
Members of the Commons. 

First Member. St. Andrew's day; sit 

close, sit close, we are friends. 
Is reconciled the word ? the Pope 

again.? 
It must be thus ; and yet, cocksbody I 

how strange 
That Gardiner, once so one with all of 

us 
Against this foreign marriage, should 

have yielded 
So utterly ! — strange I but stranger 

still that he. 
So fierce against the Headship of the 

Pope, 
Should play the second actor in this 

pageant 
That brings him in ; such a chameleon 

he ! 
Second Member. This Gardiner turn'd 

his coat in Henry's time ; 
The serpent that hath sloughM will 

slough again. 
Third Mcjuber. Tut, then we all are 

serpents. 
Second Metnber. Speak for yourself. 
Third Member. Ay, and for Gar- 
diner ! being English citizen, 
How should he bear a bridegroom out 

of Spain ? 
The Queen w®uld have him ! being 

English churchman. 
How should he bear the headship of 

the Pope ? 
The Queen would have it ! Statesmen 

that are wise 



QUEEN MARY. 



573 



Shape a necessi*cy, as the sculptor 

clay, 
To their own model. 

Second Member. Statesmen that are 

wise 
Take truth herself for model, what say 

you ? 

\To Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 
^agenhall. We talk and talk. 
First Member. Ay, and what use to 

talk ? 
Philip's no sudden alien — the Queen's 

husband, 
He's here, and king, or will be, — yet, 

cocksbody ! 
So hated here ! I watch'd a hive of 

late ; 
My seven-years' friend was with me, 

my young boy ; 
Out crept a wasp,' with half the swarm 

behind. 
" Philip/' says he. I had to cuff the 

rogue 
For infant treason. 

Third Member. But they say that 

bees, 
If any creeping life invade their hive 
Too gross to be thrust out, will build 

him round. 
And bind him in from harming of their 

combs. 
And Philip by these articles is bound 
From stirring hand or foot to wrong 

the realm. 
Second Member. By bonds of bees- 
wax, like your creeping thing j 
But your wise bees had stung him first 

to death. 
Third Member Hush, hush ! 
You wrong the Chancellor : the clauses 

addecl 
To that same treaty which the emperor 

sent us 
Were mainly Gardiner's : that no for- 
eigner 
Plold office in the household, fleet, 

forts, army; 
That if the Queen should die without 

a child, 
The bond between the kingdoms be 

dissolved; 



That Philip should not mix us any 

way 
With his French wars — 

Second Member. Ay, ay, but what se- 
curity, 
Good sir, for this, if Philip — 

Third Member. Peace — the Queen, 
Philip, and Pole. \_All rise, and stand. 

Enter Mary, Philip, ajidVoi^Y.. 

[Gardiner conducts them to the three 
chairs of state. Philip sits on the 
Queen's left, Pole on her right. 

Gardiner. Our short-lived sun, be- 
fore his winter plunge. 
Laughs at the last red leaf, and An- 
drew's day. 
Mary- Should not this day be held 
in after years 
More solemn than of old? 

Philip. IMadam, my wish 

Echoes your m.ajesty's. 

Pole. It shall be so. 

Gardiner. Mine echoes both your 

Graces'; [aside] but the Pope — 

Can we not have the Catholic church 

as well 
Without as with the Italian 1 if we 

cannot. 
Why then the Pope. 

My lords of tlie upper house, 
And ye. my masters, of the lower 

house, 
Do ye stand fast by that which ye re- 
solved .'' 
Voices. We do, 

Gardiner. And be you all one mind 
to supplicate 
The Legate here for pardon, and ac- 
knowledge 
The primacy of the Pope ? 

Voices. We are all one mind, 

Gardiner. Then must I play the vas- 
sal to this Pole. YAside. 
[He dratas a paper from under his 
robes and presents it to the KiNG 
and Queen, xvho look through it 
and returji it to him ; then ascends 
a trdntne and reads. 
We, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, 



574 



QUEEN MARY. 



And Commons here in Parliament as- 
sembled, 

Presenting the whole body of this 
realm 

Of England, and dominions of the 
same, 

Do make most humble suit unto your 
Majesties, 

In our own name and that of all the 
state. 

That by your gracious means and in- 
tercession 

Our supplication be exhibited 

To the Lord Cardinal Pole, sent here 
as Legate 

From our most holy father Julius, 
Pope, 

And from the apostolic see of Rome; 

And do declare our penitence and 
grief 

For our long schism and disobedience, 

Either in making laws and ordinances 

Against the Ploly Father's priniacy, 

Or else by doing or by speaking aught 

Which might impugn or prejudice the 
same ; 

By this our supplication promising, 

As well for our own selves as all the 
realm. 

That now we be and ever shall be 
quick, 

Under and with your Majesties' au- 
thorities. 

To do to the utmost all that in us 
lies 

Towards the abrogation and repeal 

Of all such laws and ordinances made ; 

"Whereon we humbly pray your Maj- 
esties, 

As persons undefiled with our offence, 

So to set forth this humble suit of 
ours 

That we the rather by your interces- 
sion 

]\ray from the apostolic see obtain, 

Thro' this most reverend Father, ab- 
solution. 

And full release from danger of all 
censures 

Of Holy Church that we be fall'n 
into, 



So that we may, as children penitent, 
I5e once again received into the bosom 
And unity of Universal Church , 
And that this noble realm thro' after 

years 
May in this unity and obedience 
Unto the holy see and reigning Pope 
Serve God and both your Majesties 
Voices Amen. \AU sit. 

\^//e agdin presents the petition to the 

King and Queen, who hand it 

rcverenitally to Pole. 
Pole [sitting]. This is the loveliest 

day that ever smiled 
On England. All her breath should, 

incense like. 
Rise to the heavens m grateful praise 

of Him 
Who now recalls her to his ancient 

fold. 
Lo ! once again God to this realm hath 

given 
A token of His more especial Grace; 
For as this people were the first of 

all 
The islands call'd into the dawning 

church 
Out of the dead, deep night of heath- 
endom, 
So now are these the first whom God 

hath given 
Grace to repent and sorrow^ for their 

schism ; 
And if your penilence be not mockery, 
Oh how the blessed angels who rejoice 
Over one saved do triumph at this 

hour 
In the reborn salvation of a land 
So noble. \_A pause. 

For ourselves we do protest 
That our commission is to heal, not 

harm ; 
We come not to condemn, but recon- 
cile ; 
We come not to compel, but call 

again ; 
We come not to destroy, but edify ; 
Nor yet to question things already 

done ; 
These are forgiven — matters of the 

past — 



QUEEN MARY. 



575 



And range with jetsam and with offal 

thrown 
Into the blind sea of forgetfuhicss. 

[y4 pause. 
Ye have reversed the attainder laid on 

us 
By him who sack'd the house of God ; 

and we, 
Amplier than any field on our poor 

earth 
Can render thanks in fruit for being 

sown, 
Do here and now repay you sixty-fold, 
A hundred, yea, a thousand thousand 

fold, 
With heaven for earth. 

\Rismg and strctch!7io forth his hands. 

All kneel but Sir Ralph Bagen- 

HALL, who rises and remains stand- 

ing. 

The Lord who hath redeem'd us 

With his own blood, and wash'd us 

from our sins. 
To purchase for Himself a stainless 

bride ; 
lie, whom the Father hath appointed 

Head 
Of all his church, He by His mercy 
absolve you ! \,A pause. 

And we by that authority Apostolic 
Given unto us, his Legate, by the 

Pope, 
Our Lord and Holy Father, Julius, 
God's Vicar and Vicegerent upon 

earth. 
Do here absolve you and deliver you 
And every one of you, and all the 

realm 
And its dominions from all heresy. 
All schism, and from all and every cen- 
sure, 
Judgment, and pain accruing there- 
upon ; 
And also we restore you to the bosom 
And unity of Universal Church. 

{^Turning to GARDINER. 
Our letters of commission will declare 
this plainlier. 

[Queen heard sobbing. Cries of 
^Anien ! Amen ! Some of the 
members embrace one an.othcr. 



All but Sir Ralph Bagenhall 
pass out into the neighboring 
chapel, zvhence is heard the Te 
Deum. 
Bagenhall. We strove against the 
papacy from the first, 

In William's time, in our first Edward's 
time, 

And in my master Henry's time; but 
now, 

The unity of Universal Church, 

Mary would have it; and this Gardiner 
follows ; 

The unity of Universal Hell, 

Philip would have it; and this Gar- 
diner follows ! 

A Parliament of imitative apes ! 

Sheep at the gap which Gardiner 
takes, who not 

Believes the Pope, nor any of them be- 
lieve — '■ 

These spaniel-Spaniard English of the 
time. 

Who rub their fawning noses in the 
dust, 

For that is Philip's gold-dust, and 
adore 

This Vicar of their Vicar. Would I 
had been 

Born Spaniard ! I had held my head 
up then. 

I am ashamed that I am Bagenhall, 

English. 

Enter Officer. 

Officer. Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall. What of that? 

Officer. You were the one sole man 
in either house 
Who stood upright when both the 
houses fell, 
Bagenhall. The houses fell ! 
Officer. I mean the houses knelt 

Before the Legate. 

Bagenhall. Do not scrimp your 
phrase, 
But stretch it wider; say when Eng- 
land fell. 
Officer. I say you were the one 

sole man who stood. 
Bagenhall. I am the one sole man 
i in either house, 



57^ 



QUEEN MARY. 



Perchance in England, loves her like 
a son. 
Officer. Well, you one man, because 
you stood upright, 
Her Grace the Queen commands you 
to the Tower. 
Bagaihall. As traitor, or as heretic, 

or for what ? 
Officer. If any man in any w^ay 
would be 
The one man he shall be so to his 
cost. 
Bagenhall. What! will she have my 

head .'' 
Officer. A round fine likelier. 
Your pardon. [Calling to Attendanl 
By the river to the Tower. 
{Exeunt. 

SCENE IV.— WHITEHALL. A 
ROOM IN THE PALACE. 

Mary, Gardiner, Pole, Paget, Bon- 
ner, etc. 

Mary. The king and I, my Lords, 

now that all traitors 
Against our royal state have lost the 

heads 
Wherewith they plotted in their trea- 
sonous malice. 
Have talk'd together, and are well 

agreed 
That those old statutes touching Lol- 

lardism 
To bring the heretic to the stake, 

should be 
No longer a dead letter, but requick- 

en'd. 
One of the Coimcil. WMiy, wljat hath 

fluster'd Gardiner .^ how he rubs 
His forelock. 
Paget. I have changed a word with 

him 
In coming, and may change a word 

again. 
Gardiner. ALadam, your Highness 

is our sun, the King 
And you together our two suns in one ; 
And so the beams of both may shine 

upon us, 



The faith that seem'd to droop will 

feel your light, 
Lift head, and flourish ; yet not light 

alone, 
There must be heat — there must be 

heat enough 
To scorch and wither heresy to the 

root. 
For what saith Christ? "Compel 

them to come in." 
And what saith Paul t " I would they 

were cut off 
That trouble you." Let the dead 

letter live ! 
Trace it in fire, that all the louts to 

whom 
Their A B C is darkness, clowns and 

grooms 
May read it ! so you quash rebellion 

too, 
For heretic and traitor are all one ; 
Two vipers of one breed — an amphis- 

boena. 
Each end a sting : Let the dead letter 

burn ! 
Paget. Yet there be some disloyal 

Catholics, 
And many heretics loyal : heretic 

throats 
Cried no God-bless-her to the Lady 

Jane, 
But shouted in Queen Mary. So there 

be 
Some traitor-heretic, there is axe and 

cord. 
To take the lives of others that are 

loyal. 
And by the churchman's pitiless doom 

of fire. 
Were but a thankless policy in the 

crown. 
Ay, and against itself; for there are 

many. 
I\Iary.''\i we could burn out heresy, 

my Lord, Paget, 
We reck not tho' we lost this crown of 

England — 
Ay ! tlio' it were ten Englandsl 

Gardiner. Right, your Grace. 

Paget, you are all for this poor life of 

ours. 



QUE EX MARY. 



577 



And care but little for the life to be. 
Paget. I have some time, for 
curiousness, my Lord, 
Watch'd children playing at i/ieir life 

to be, 
And cruel at it, killing helpless flies; 
Such is our time — all times for aught 
I know. 
Gardiner. We kill the heretics that 
sting the soul — 
They, with right reason, flies that prick 
'the flesh. 
Paget. They had not reach'd right 
reason; little children ! 
rhey kill'd but for their pleasure and 

the power 
rhey felt in killing. 

Gardiner. A spice of Satan, ha ! 
AVhy, good! what then .'* granted I — 

we are fallen creatures ; 
Look to your Bible, Paget ! we are 
fallen. 
Paget. I am but of the laity, my 
Lord Bishop, 
And may not read your Bible, yet I 

found 
One day a wholesome scripture, 

'' Little children, 
r.ove one another." 

Gardiner. Did you find a scripture, 
" 1 come not to bring peace but a 

sword?" The sword 
Is in her Grace's hand to smite with. 

Paget, 
You stand up here to fight for heresy, 
You are more than guess'd at as a 

heretic. 
And on the steep-up track of the tru: 

faith 
Your lapses are far seen. 

Paget. The faultless Gardiner I 

Alary. You brawl beyond the ques- 
tion ; speak, Lord Legate. 
Pole. Indeed, I cannot follow with 
your Grace, 
Rather would say — the shej)herd doth 

• not kill 
The sheep that wander from his flock, 

but sends 
His careful dog to bring them to the 
fold. 

37 



Look to the Netherlands, wherein 

have been 
Such holocausts of heresy ! to what 

end ? 
For yet the faith is not established 

there. 
Gardifier. The end's not come. 
Pole. • No — nor this way will come, 
Seeing there lie two ways to every 

end, 
A better and a worse — the worse is 

here 
To persecute, because to persecute 
Makes a faith hated, and is further- 
more 
No perfect witness of a perfect faith 
In him who perseeutcs : when men are 

tost 
On tides of strange opinion, and not 

sure 
Of their own selves, they are wrotli 

with their own selves, 
And thence with others ; then who 

lights the fagot .'' 
Not the full faith, no, but the lurking 

doubt. 
Old Rome, that first made martyrs in 

the Church, 
Trembled for her own gods, for these 

were trembling — 
But when did our Rome tremble ? 

Paget. Did she not 

In Henry's time and Edward's ? 

Pole. V/hat, my Lord! 

The Church on Peter's rock? never! 

I have seen 
A pine in Italy that cast its shadov/ 
Athwart a cataract ; firm stood the 

pine — 
The cataract shook the shadow. To 

my mind. 
The cataract typed the headlong 

plunge and fall 
Of heresy to the pit : the pine was 

Rome. 
You see', my Lords, 
It was the shadow of the Church that 

trembled ; 
Your church was but the shadow of a 

church, 
^Vanting the triple mitre. 



57$ 



QUEEN MARY. 



Gardiner {viu(tcring). Here he 

tropes. 
Pole. And tropes are good to clothe 
a naked truth, 

And make it look more seemly. 

Gardiner. Tropes again ! 

Pole. Yoti are hard to please. Then 
without tropes, my Lord, 

An overmuch severeness, I repeat, 

When faith is wavering makes the 
waverer pass 

Into more settled hatred of the doc- 
trines 

Of those who rule, which hatred by 
and by 

Involves the ruler (thus there springs 
to light 

That Centaur of a monstrous Com- 
monweal, 

The traitor-heretic), then tho' some 
may quail, [fire, 

Yet others are that dare the stake and 

And their strong torment, bravely 
borne, begets 

An admiration and an indignation, 

And hot desire to imitate; so the 
plague 

Of schism s])reads ; were there but 
three or four 

Of these misleaders, yet I would not 
say 

Burn ! and we cannot burn whole 
towns ; they are many, 

As my Lorci Paget says. 

Gardiner. Yet my Lord Cardinal — 
Pole. I am your Legate ; please you 
let me finish. 

Methinks that under our Queen's reg- 
imen 

We might go softlier than with crim- 
son rowel 

And streaming lash. When Herod- 
Henry first 

Began to batter at your English 
Church, 

This was the cause, and hence the 
judgment on her. 

She seethed with such adulteries, and 
the lives 

Of many among your churchmen were 
so foul. 



That heaven wept and earth blush'd. 

I would advise 
That we should thoroughly cleanse the 

Church within 
Before these bitter statutes be requick- 

ened. 
So after that when she once more is seen 
White as the light, the spotless bride 

of Christ, 
Like Christ himself on Tabor, possibly 
The Lutheran may be won to her 

again ; [ance- 

Till when, my Lords, I counsel toler- 

Gar diner. What if a mad dog bit 

your hand, my Lord, 
Would vou not chop the bitten finger 

off,' 
Lest your whole body should madden 

\yith the poison ? 
I would not, were I Queen, tolerate the 

heretic, 
No, not an hour. The ruler of a land 
Is bounden by his power and place to 

see 
His people be not poison'd. Tolerate 

them ! 
Why ? do they tolerate you ? Nay, 

many of them 
Would burn — have burnt each other ; 

call they not 
The one true faith a loathsome idol- 
worship? 
Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier 

crime 
Than heresy is itself ; beware, I say, 
Lest men accuse you of indifference 
To all faiths, all religion ; for you know 
Right well that you yourself have been 

supposed 
Tainted with Lutheranism in Italy. 
Pole {angered). But you, my Lord, 

beyond all supposition. 
In clear and open day were congruent 
With that vileCranmer in the accursed 

lie 
Of good Queen Catherine's divorce — 

the spring 
Of all those evils that have flovv'd upon 

us; 
For you yourself have truckled to the 

tyrant, 



QUEEN MARY. 



579 



And done your best to bastardize our 

Queen, 
For which God's righteous judgment 

fell upon you 
In your five years of imprisonment, 

iny Lord, 
Under young Edward. Who so bol- 

ster'd up 
The gross King's headship of the 

Church, or more 
Denied the Holv Father! 

Gardiner. ' Ila ! what ! eh ? 

But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentle- 
man, 
A bookman, flying from the heat and 

tussle, 
Vou lived among your vines and 

oranges, 
Li your soft Laly yonder ! you were 

sent for. 
You were appeal'd to, but you still pre- 

ferr'd 
Your learned leisure. As for what I 

did 
I suffer'd and repented. You, Lord 

Legate 
And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now to 

learn 
That ev'n St. Peter in his time of fear 
Denied his i\Laster, ay, and thrice, my 

Lord. 
Pole. But not for five and twenty 

years, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Ha ! good ! it seems then 

I was sommon'd hither 
But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, 

friend Bonner, 
And tell this learned Legate he lacks 

zeal. 
The Church's evil is not as the King's, 
Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The 

mad bite 
Must have the cautery — tell him — and 

at once. 
V>"liat wouldst thou do hadst thou his 

power, thou 
That layest so long in heretic bonds 

with me. 
\Vouldst thou not burn and blast them 

root and branch .'' 
Bonner. Ay, after you, my Lord. 



Gardiner. Nay, God's passion, be- 
fore me ! speak. 
Bonner. I am on fire until I see 

them flame. 
Gardiner. Ay, the psalm-singing 
weavers, cobblers, scum — 

But this most noble prince Plantagenet, 

Our good Queen's cousin — dallying 
over seas 

Even when his brother's, nay, his noble 
mother's. 

Head fell— 
Pole. Peace, mad man ! 

Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst not 
fathom. 

Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord 
Chancellor 

Of England ! no more rein upon thine 
anger 

Than any child ! Thou mak'st nie 
much ashamed [thee. 

That I was for a moment wroth at 
Mary. ' come for counsel and ye 
give me feuds, 

Like dogs that set to watch their mas- 
ter's gate, 

Fall, when the thief is ev'n within the 
walls, 

To worrying one another. My Lord 
Chancellor, 

You have an old trick of offending us : 

And but that you are art and part with 
us [this 

In purging heresy, well we might, for 

Your violence and much roughness to 
the Legate, 

Have shut you from our counsels 
Cousin Pole, 

You are fresh from brighter lands. Re- 
tire with me. [us) 

His highness and myself (so you allow 

Will let you learn in peace and pri- 
vacy 

What power this cooler sun of Eng- 
land hath 

In breeding Godless vermin. And 
pray Heaven 

That you may see according to our 
sight. 

Come, cousin. 

\Exeunt QuEEN and Pole, etc. 



58o 



QUEEN MARY. 



Gardi)ier. Pole has the riantagcnet 
face, 
But not the force made them our 

mightiest kings. 
Fine eyes — but melancholy, irreso- 
lute— 
A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine 
beard. ^ [ha? 

l>ut a weak mouth, an indeterminate — 
Bonner. Well, a weak mouth, per- 
chance. 
Gardiner. And not like thine 

To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or 
raw. 
Bonner. I'd do my best, my Lord ; 
but yet the Legate 
Is here as Pope and Master of the 

Church, 
And if he go not with "you — 

Gardiner. Tut, Master Bishop, 

Our bashful Legate, saw'st not how he 

flush'd .? 
Touch him upon his old heretical talk. 
He'll burn a diocese to prove his or- 
thodoxy. 
And let him call me truckler. In 

those times, 
Tliou knowest we had to dodge, or 

duck, or die ; 
I kept my head for use of Holy 

Church ; 
And see you, we shall have to dodge 

again. 
And let the Pope trample our rights, 

and plunge 
His foreign fist into our island Church 
To plump the leaner pouch of Italy. 
For a time, for a time. 
Why ? that these statutes may be put 

in force, 
And that his fan may thoroughly 
purge his floor. 
Bonner. So then you hold the 

Pope — 
Gardiner. I hold the Po]3C ! 

What do I hold him ? what do I hold 

the Pope } 
Come, come, the morsel stuck — this 

Cardinal's fault — 
I have gulpt it down. I am wholly 
for the Pope, 



Utterly and altogether for the Pope, 
The Eternal Peter of the changeless 

chair, 
Crown'd slave of slaves, and mitred 

king of kings, 
God upon earth ! what more ? wliat 

would you have .'' 
Hence, let's be gone. 

Enter Usher. 

Usher. Well that you be not gone, 
My Lord. The Queen, most wroth 

at first with you, 
Is now content to grant you full for- 
giveness. 
So that you crave full pardon of the 

Legate. 
I am sent to fetch you. 

Ga7'diner. Doth Pole yield, sir, hal 
Did you hear 'em 1 were you by? 

Usher. I cannot tell you. 

His bearing is so courtly-delicate ; 
And yet methinks he falters ; their two 

Graces 
Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin 

him. 
So press on him the duty which as 

Legate 
He owes him.self, and with such royal 
smiles — 
Gardiner. Smiles that burn men 
Bonner, it will be carried. 
He falters, ha ? 'fore God we change 

and change ; 
Men now are bow'd and old, the doc- 
tors tell you. 
At threescore years ; then if we change 

at all 
We needs must do it quickly; it is an 

age 
Of brief life, and brief purpose, and 

brief patience, 
As I have shown to day. I am sorry 

for it 
If Pole be like to turn. Our old friend 

Cranmer, 
Your more especial love, hath turn'd 

so often. 
He knows not where he stand? which, 
if this pass, 



QUEEN MARY. 



5S1 



We too shall have to teach him; let \ So it must last. It is not like a word, 

'em look to it, | That comes and goes in uttering. 

Cranmer and Hooper, Ridley and Lat- i Elizabeth. Truth, a word! 

imer, | The very Truth and very Word are 

Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is j one. 

come, i But truth of story, which I glanced at, 

Thfcir hour is hard at hand, their | girl, 

'•' dies Irre," I Is like a M'ord that comes from olden 

Their "dies Ilia," which will test their | days, 

sect. _ . . i ^"^^ passes thro' the peoples : every 

I feel it but a duty — you will find in it tongue 

Pleasure as well as duty, worthy Bon- 1 Alters it passing, till it spells and 

ner, — I speaks 

To test their sect. Sir, I attend the : Quite other than at first. 



Queen 
To crave most humble pardon — of her 

most 
Royal, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin. 
\^Exeimt. 

SCENE v.— WOODSTOCK. 

Elizabeth, Lady in Waiting. 

Lady. The colors of our Queen are 

green and white, 
These fields are only green, they make 

me gape. 
Elizabdh. There's whitethorn, girl. 
Lady. Ay, for an hour in May 



Lady. I do not follow. 

Elizabeth. How m.any names in the 
long sweep of time 

That so foreshortens greatness, may 
but hang 

On the chance mention of some fool 
that once 

Brake bread with us, perhaps; and 
my poor chronicle 

Is but of glass. Sir Henry Beding- 
field 

May split it for a spite. 
Lady. God grant it last, 

And witness to your Grace's inno- 
cence, 

Till doomsday melt it. 



But court is always May, buds out in 1 Elizabeth. Or a second fire, 

masks, j Like that which lately crackled under- 

I>reaks into leather'd merriments, and 1 foot 

flowers I And in this very chamber, fuse the 

In silken pageants. Why do they ! glass, 

keep us here ? j And char us back again into the dust 

Why still suspect your Grace ? | We spring from. Never peacock 

lilizabeth. Hard ui>on iKuh. i against rain . 

\VVrites on the wijidoio ivith a dia- Scream'd as you did for water. 
vioiid. ! Lady. And I got it. 

I woke Sir Henry — and he's true to 

you — 
I read his honest horror in his eyes. 
I Elizabeth. Or true to vou ? 



Much suspected, of me 
Notliing proven can be, 
Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner. 



Lady. What hath your Highness 

written ? 
Elizabeth. A true rh.jme. 
Lady. Cut with a diamond ; so to 

last like truth. 
Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last. 
Lad)'. But truth, ihey say, will out, 



Lady. Sir Henry Bedingfield ! 

I will have no man true to me. your 

Grace, 
But one that pares his nails ; to me ? 

the clown ! 
For, like his cloak, his manners want 

the nap 



S8: 



QUEEN MARY, 



And gloss of court ; but of this fire he 

says, 
Nay swears, it was no wicked wilful- 
ness, 
Only a natural chance. 

Elizabeth. A chance — perchance 

One of those wicked wilfuls that men 

make, 
Nor shame to call it nature. Nay, I 

know 
They hunt my blood. Save for my 

daily range 
Among the pleasant fields of Holy 

Writ 
I might despair. But there hath some 

one come ; 
The house is all in movement. Hence, 

and see. \Exit Lady. 

Milkmaid [singing without). 

Shame upon you, Robin, 

Shame upon you now ! 
Kiss me would you ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 

Daisies grow again, 

Kingcups blow agani. 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Robin came behind me, 

Kiss'd me well I vow ; 
Cliff him could I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 

Swallows fly again. 

Cuckoos cry again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Come, Robin, Robin, 

Come and kiss me now ; 
Help it can I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 

Ringdoves coo again. 

All things woo again. 
Come behind and kiss me milking the cow ! 

Elizabeth. Right honest and red- 
cheek'd ; Robin was violent. 

And she was crafty — a sweet violence. 

And a sweet craft. I would I were a 
milkmaid. 

To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, 
bake, and die. 

Then have my simple headstone by 
the church. 

And all things lived and ended hon- 
estly. 

I could not if I would. I ant Harry's 
daughter : 



Gardiner would have my head. They 

are not sweet, 
The violence and the craft that do di- 
vide 
The world of nature; what is weak 

must lie ; 
The lion needs but roar to guard his 

young ; 
The lapwing lies, says " here " when 

they are there. 
Threaten the child; " Til scourge you 

if you did it." 
What weapon hath the child, save his 

soft tongue. 
To say " I did not ? " and my rod's 

the block. 
I never lay my head upon the pillow 
But that I think, " Wilt thou lie there 

to-morrow t " [fell, 

How oft the falling axe, that never 
Hath shock'd me back into the day- 
light truth 
That it may fall to-day ! Those damp, 

black, dead 
Nights in the Tov.'er; dead — with the 

fear of death — 
Too dead ey'n for a death-watch ! Toll* 

of a bell. 
Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a 

rat 
Affrighted me, and then delighted me, 
For there was life — And there was life 

in death — 
The little murder'd princes, in a pale 

light. 
Rose hand in hand, and whisper'd 

*' come away, 
The civil wars are gone forevermore : 
Thou last of all the Tudors, come 

away, 
With us in peace!" The last? It 

was a dream ; 
I must not dream, not wink, but watch. 

She has gone. 
Maid Marian to her Robin — by and by 
Both happy ! a fox may filch a hen by 

night, ' 
And make a morning outcry in the 

yard : 
But there's no Renard here to *' catch 

her tripping." 



QUEEN MARY. 



583 



Catch me who can; yet sometime I 
have wish'd 

That I were caught, and kill'd away at 
once 

Out of the flutter. The gray rogue, 
Gardiner, 

Went on his knees, and pray'd me to 
confess 

In AVvatt's business, and to cast my- 
self 

Upon the good Queen's mercy; ay, 
when, my Lord ? 

God save the Queen. My jailer — 

Enter SiR Henry Bedingfield. 

Bedin<^ficld. One, whose bolts, 

That jail you from free life, bar you 

from death. 
There haunt som.e Papist ruffians here- 
about 
Would murder vou. 

Elizabeth. I'thank you heartily, sir. 
But I am roval. tho' your prisoner, 
And God hath b'est or cursed me with 

a nose — 
Your boots are from the horses. 

Bedingfield. Ay, my Lady. 

When next there comes a missive from 

the Queen 
It shall be all my study for one hour 
To rose and lavender my horsiness, 
Before I dare to glance upon your 

Grace 
Elizabeth. A missive from the Queen : 

last time she wrote, 
I had like to have lost my life : it takes 

my breath : 
O God, sir, do you look upon your 

boots, 
Are you so small a man ? Help me : 

what think you, 
Is it life or death ? 

Bedinoficld. I thought not on my 

boots; [made 

The devil take all boots were ever 
Since man went barefoot. See, I lay 

it here, 
For I will come no nearer to your 

Grace ; \Laying dcnvn the letter. 
And whether it bring you bitter news 

or sweet, 



And God have given your Grace a 

nose, or not, 
I'll help you, if I may. 

Elizabeth, Your pardon, then ? 

It is the heat and narrowness of the 

cage 
That makes the captive icsty; with 

free Aving 
The world were all one Araby. Leave 

me now. 
Will vou, companion to myself, sir ? 

Beddingfield. Will I ? 

With most exceeding willingness, I 

will ; 
You know I ne'ver come till I be call'd. 

{Exit. 
Elizabeth. It lies_ there folded ; is 
there venom in it ? 
A snake— and if I touch it, it may 

sting. 
Come, come, the worst! 
Best wisdom is to know the worst at 
once. IReads • 

•' It is the King's wish that you 
should wed Prince Yhilibert of Savoy. 
You are to come to Court on the in- 
stant ; and think of this in your coming. 
"Mary the Queen." 

Think ! I have many thoughts ; 
I think there may be bndlime here for 
me ; 

I think they fain would have me from 

the realm ; 
I think the Queen mav never bear a 

child ; 
■ I think that I may be sometmie the 

Queen, 
Then, Queen indeed : no foreign prince 

or priest 
Should fill my throne, myself upon the 

steps. 
I think I will not marry any one. 
Specially not this landless Philibert 
Of Savov; but, if Philip menace me, 
I think that I will play with Philibert,— 
As once the holy father did with mine, 
Before my father married my good 

mother, — 
For fear of Spain. 



SS4 



QUEEN MARY. 



Enter Lady. 
Lady. O Lord ! your Grace, your 
Grace, 
I feel so happy : it seems that we 

shall fly 
These bald, blank, fields, and dance 

into the sun 
That shines on princes. 

Elizabeth. Yet, a moment since, 

I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing 

here, 
To kiss and cuff among the birds and 

flowers — 
A right rough life and healthful. 

Lady. But the wench 

Hath her own troubles; she is weep- 
ing now; 
For the wrong Robin took her at her 

M ord. 
Then the cow kick'd, and all her milk 

was spilt. 
Your Highness such a milkmaid? 

Elizabeth. I had kept 

My Robins and my cows in sweeter 

order 
Had I been such 
Lady {siyly). And had your grace a 

Robin. 
Elizabeth. Come, come, you are chill 
here ; you want the sun 
'I'hat shines at court ; make ready for 

the journey. 
Pray God, we 'scape the sunstroke. 
Ready at once. \_Exeii7it. 

SCENE VL— LOxVDON. A ROOM 
IN THE PALACE. 

]>oRD Petre and Lord \ViLLi.\M 
Howard. 
Petre. You cannot see the Queen. 
Renard denied her, 
J'^v'n now, to me. 

Howard. Their Flemloh go between 
And all' in-all. I can:ic to thank her 

Majesty 
For freeing my friend Eagenhall from 

the Tower ; 
A grace to me ! Mercy, that herb- 

of-grace. 
Flowers now but seldom. 



Petre. Only now, perhaps, 

Because the Queen hath been three 

days in tears 
For Philip's going — like the wild hedge- 
rose 
Of a soft winter, possible, not prob- 
able. 
However, you have prov'n it. 
JLcnvard. I must see her. 

Enter Renard. 

Renard. My Lords, you cannot see 

her Majesty. 
Howard. Why then the King ! for J 

would have him bring it 
Home to" the leisure wisdom of his 

Queen, 
Before he go, that since these statutes 

past, 
Gardiner out-Gardiners Gardiner in 

his heat, 
Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own 

self- 
Beast ! — but they play with fire as 

children do, 
And burn the house. I know that 

these are breeding 
A fierce resolve and fi.\t heart-hate in 

men 
Against the King, the Queen, the 

Ploly Father, 
The faith itself. Can I not see liim ? 
Renard. Not now. 

And in all this, my Lord, her Majesty 
Is flint of flint, you may strike fire 

from her, 
Not hope to melt her. I will give 

your message. 

{Exeunt VKiKV.a/id HowAP D. 

Enter Pnii.ir {jnusinr) 

Philip. She will not have Prince 

Philibert of Savoy, 
I talk'd with her in vain — she says she 

will live 
And die true maid — a goodly creature 

too. 
^¥ould j'//<? had been the Queen! yet 

she must have him ; 
She troubles England : that ihe 

breathes in England 



QUEEN M'AKY. 



585 



Is life and lungs to every rebel birth 
That passes out of embryo. 

Simon Renard ! — 
This Howard, whom they fear, what 

was he saying? 
Renard. What your imperial father 

said, my liege, 
To deal with heresy gentlier. Gardi- 
ner burns, 
And Bonner burns : and it would 

seem this people 
Caic more for our brief life in their 

wet land. 
Than yours in happier Spain, I told 

my Lord 
lie should not vex her Highness ; she 

would say 
These are the means God works with, 

that his church 
May flourish. 

FJiilip. Ay, sir, but in statesmanship 
To strike top soon is oft to miss the 

blow. 
'I'hou knowest I bade my chaplain, 

Castro, preach 
Against these burnings. 

Renard. And the Emperor ^ 

Approved you, and when last he wrote, 

declared 
His comfort in your Gi ace that you 

were bland 
And affable to men of all estates, 
In hope to charm them from their hate 

of Spain. 
Philip In hope to crush ?\\ heresy 

under Sj^ain. 
iJut, Renard, I am sicker staying here 
Than any sea could make me passing 

hence, 
Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea. 
So sick am I with biding for this child. 
Is it the fashion in this clime for 

women 
'i'o go twelve months in bearing of a 

child > 
The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, 

they led 
Pro.cessions, chanted litanies, clash'd 

their bells, 
Shot off their lying cannon, and her 

priests 



Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair 

prince to come. 

Till, by St. James, I find myself tiie 

fool. ' [thus? 

Why do you lift your eyebrow at me 

Renard. I never saw your Highness 

moved till now. 
Philip. So, weary am I of this wet 
land of theirs, 
And every soul of man that breathes 
therein. 
Renard. My liege, ^^■e must not drop 
the mask before 
The masquerade is over — 

Philip. — Have I dropt it ? 

I have but shown a loathing face to 

you. 
Who knew it from tlie first. 

Enter Mary. 

]\Tary [aside). With Renard. Still 
Parleying with Renard, all the day with 

Renard, 
And scarce a greeting all the day for 

me — 
And goes to-morron'. [Exit Mary. 
Philip {to Renard, -ddio advances to 

him). Well, sir, is there more ? 
Reiiard [who has perceived the 
Queen). May Simon Renard 
speak a single word ? 
Philip. Ay. 

Renard. And be forgiven for it ? 
Philip. Simond Renard 

Knows me too \vell to speak a single 

word 
That could not be forgiven 

Renard. Well, my liege, 

Your Grace hath a most chaste and 
loving wife. 
Philip. Why not? The Queen of 

Philip should be chaste. 
Renard. Ay, but, my Lord, you know 
what Virgil sings, 
Woman is various and most mutable. 
Philip. She play the harlot ! never. 
Rejiard. No, sire, no. 

Not dream'd of by tho rabidest Gos- 
peller. 
1'liere was a paper thrown into the 
palace. 



586 



QUEEN MARY. 



" The King hath wearied of his barren 

bride." 
She came upon it, read it, and then 

rent it, 
With all the rage of one who hates a 

truth 
He cannot but allow. Sire, I would 

have you — 
What should I say, I cannot pick my 

words — 
Be somewhat less — majestic to your 

Queen. 
Philip. Am I to change my man- 
ners, Simon Renard, 
Because these islanders are brutal 

beasts ? 
Or would you have me turn a son- 
neteer, 
And warble those brief-sighted eyes of 

hers } 
Renard. Brief-sighted tho' they be, 

I have seen them, sire, 
When you perchance were trifling 

royally [fill 

With some fair dame of court, suddenly 
With such fierce fire — had it been fire 

indeed 
It would have burnt both speakers. 
Philip. Ay, and then } 

Renard. Sire, might it not be policy 

in some matter 
Of small importance now and then to 

cede 
A point to her demand ? 

Philip. Well, I am going. 

Re}iard. For should her love, when 

you are gone, my liege, 
Witness these papers, there will not be 

wanting 
Those that will urge her injury — should 

her love — 
And I have known such women more 

than one — 
Veer to the counterpoint, and jealousy 
Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse 
Almost into one metal love and hate, — 
And she impress her wrongs upon her 

Council, 
And these again upon her Parliament — 
We are not loved here, and would be 

then perhaps 



Not so well holpen in our wars with 

France, 
As else we might be — here she comes. 

Ejifer Mary. 
Mary. O Philip ! 

Nay, must you go indeed ? 

Philip. ' Madam, I must. 

Mary. The parting of a husband 

and a wife [half 

Is like the cleaving of a heart ; one 

Will flutter here, one there. 

Philip. You say true, Madam. 

APary. The Holy Virgin will not 

have me yet 

Lose the sweet hope that I may bear a 

prince. 
If such a prince were born and you not 
here ! 
Philip. I should be here if such a 

prince were born. 
Mary. But must you go .-* 
Philip. Madam, you know my father, 
Retiring into cloistral solitude 
To yield the remnant of his years to 

heaven. 
Will shift the yoke and weight of all the 

world 
From off his neck to mine. We meet 

at Brussels. 
But since mine absence will not be for 
long, [me, 

Your Majesty shall go to Dover with 
And wait my coming back. 

Alary. To Dover ? no, 

I am too feeble I will go to Green- 
wich, 
So you will have me with you ; and 

there watch 
All that is gracious in the breath of 

heaven 
Draw with your sails from our poor 

land, and pass 
And leave me, Philip, with my prayers 
for you. 
Philip. And doubtless I shall profit 

by your j^rayers. 
Mary. Methinks that would you 
tarry one day more 
(The news v/as sudden) I could mould 
myself 



QUEEN MARY. 



587 



To bear your going better ; will you 

do it ? 
Philip Madam, a day may sink or 

save a realm. 
Mary A day may save a»heart from 

breaking too. 
Philip Well, Sim.on Renard, shall 

we stop a day ? 
Renard. Your Grace's business will 

not suffer, sire, 
Vc\\ one day more, so far as I can tell. 
Philip Then one day more to please 

her Maiesty 
Mary The sunshine sweeps across 

my life again. 

if I knew voufelt this parting, Philp, 
As 1 do ! ' 

Philip. By St. James I do protest. 
Upon the faith and honor of a Span- 
iard, 

1 am vastly grieved to leave your ^laj- 

esty. 
Simon, is supper ready '' 

Renard. 
I -saw the covers laying. 

Philip. Let us have it. 

\Excunt. 



ACT IV. 

-TENE I.— A ROOM IN THE 
PALACE. 

Mary, Cardinal Pole. 
Mary. What have you there .? 
Pole. So please your Majest}', 

A long petition from the foreign exiles 
To spare the life of Cranmer. Bishop 

Thiriby, 
And my Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
Crave, in the same cause, hearing of 

your Grace. 
Hath he not written himself — infatu- 
ated — 
To sue you for his life ? 

Mary. His life ? Oh, no ; 

Not sued for that — he knows it were 

in vain 
But so much of the anti-papal leaven 



Works in him yet, he hath prayed me 

not to sully 
jNIine own prerogative, and degrade the 

realm 
By seeking justice at a stranger's hand 
Against my natural subject. King and 

Queen, 
To v>hom he owes his loyalty after God, 
Shall these accuse him to a foreign 

prince ? 
Death would not grieve him more. I 

cannot be 
True to this realm of England and the 

Pope 
Together, says the heretic. 

Pole. And there errs ; 

As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity. 
A secular kingdom is but as the body 
Lacking a soul ; and in itself a beast. 
The Holy Father in a secular kingdom 
Is as the soul descending out of heaven 
Into a body generate. 
Mary. Write to him, then. 

Pole. I will. 

Mary. And sharply, Pole. 
Pole. Here comes the Cranmerites! 

Enter Thirlby, Lord Paget, Lord 

William Howard. 

I/ozuard. Health to your Grace. 

Good-morrow, my Lord Cardinal ; 

We make our humble prayer unto your 

Grace 
That Cranmer may withdraw to foreign 

parts, 
Or into private life within the realm. 
In several bills and declarations, 

Madam, 
He hath recanted all his heresies. 
Paf^et. Ay, ay; if Bonner have not 
forged the bills. \_Aside. 

Mary. Did not More die, and 

Fisher ? he must burn. 
Ilo-vard. He hath recanted, Madam. 
Mary. The better for him. 

He burns in Purgator}-, not in Hell. 
Howard. Ay, ay, your Grace; but 
it was never seen 
That any one recanting thus at full, 
As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on 
earth. 



588 



QUEEN MARY. 



Mary. It will be seen now, then. 
Thirlby. O Madam, Madam ! 

I thus implore you, low upon my 

knees, 
To reach the hand of mercy to my 

friend. 
I have err'd with him ; with him I have 

recanted. 
What human reason is there why my 

friend 
Should meet wilh lesser mercy than 

myself ? 
Mary. My Lord of Ely, this. After 

a riot 
We hang the leaders, let their follow- 
ing go. 
Cranmer is head and father of these 

heresies, God 

New learning as they call it ; yea, may 
Forget me at most need when I forget 
Her foul divorce — my sainted mother 

— No!— 
Hoxvard. Ay, ay, but mighty doctors 

doubted there. 
The Pope himself \vaver'd ; and more 

than one 
Row'd in that galley — Gardiner to wit. 
Whom truly I deny not to have been 
Your faithful friend and trusty coun- 
cillor. 
Hath not your Highness ever read his 

book, 
His tractate upon True Obedience, 
Writ by himself and Bonner .? 

Alary. I v/ill take 

Such order with all bad, heretical books 
That none shall hold them in his house 

and live. 
Henceforward, "^o, my Lord. 
. Howard. Then never read it. 

The truth is liere. Your father was a 

man 
(Jf such colossal kinghood, yet so 

courteous. 
Except when wroth, you scarce could 

meet his eye 
And hold your own ; and were he 

wroth indeed. 
You held it less, or not at all. I say, 
Your father had a will that beat men 

down : 



Your father had a brain that beat men 

down — 
Pole. Not me, my Lord. 
Hoimrd. No, for you v.ere not 

here; • 
You sit upon this fallen "Cranmer's 

throne ; 
And it would more become you, my 

Lord Legate, 
To join a voice, so potent with her 

Highness, 
To ours in plea for Cranmer than to 

stand 
On naked self-assertion. 

Mary. All your voices 

Are waves on flint. The heretic must 

burn. 
Hozvard. Yet once he saved your 

Majesty's own life ; 
Stood out against the King in your be- 
half, 
At his own peril. 

Mary. I know not if he did ; 

And if he did I care not, my Lord 

Howard. 
My life is not so happy, no such boon, 
That I should spare to take a heretic 

priest's. 
Who saved it or not saved. Why do 

you vex me ? 
Paget. Yet to save Cranmer were to 

save the Church. 
Your Majesty's I mean ; he is effaced, 
Self-blotted out; so wounded in his 

honor, 
He can but creep down into some dark 

hole. 
Like a hurt beast, and hide himself and 

die ; 
But if you burn him, — w^ell, your High- 
ness knows 
The saying, " Martyr's blood — seed of 

the Church." 
Mary. Of the true Church; but his 

is none, nor will be. 
You are too politic for me, my Lord 

Paget. 
And if he hath to live so loath'd a life. 
It were more merciful to burn him now. 
Thirlby. O yet relent. O. RLadam, 

if you knew him 



QUEEN MARY. 



589 



As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious, 
With all his learning — 

Alary. Yet a heretic still 

His learning makes his burning the 
more just. 
IViirlby. So worshipt of all those 
that came across him ; . 
The stranger at his hearth, and all his 
house — 
Mary. His children and his concu- 
bine, belike. 
Thirl by. To do him any wrong was 
to beget 
A kindness from him, for his heart was 

rich. 
Of such fine mould, that if you sow'd 

therein 
The see<l of Hate, it blossom'd Charity. 
Pole. "After his kind it costs him 
nothing," there's 
An old world English adage to the 

point. 
These are but natural graces, my good 

Bishop, 
Which in the Catholic garden are as 

flowers, 
But on the heretic dunghill only weeds. 
I/cnvard. Such weeds make dung- 
hills gracious. 
Mary. Enough, mv Lords. 

It is God's will, the Holy Father's will, 
And Philip's will, and mine, that he 

should burn. 
He is pronounced anathema. 

I/o%vard. Farewell, Madam, 

God grant vou ampler mercy at vour 

call 
Than you have shown to Cranmer. 

\_Exeujit Lords. 



Poh 



After thi.^ 



Your Grace will hardly care to over- 
look 
This same petition of the foreign exiles, 
For Cranmer's life. 
Mary. Make out the writ to-night. 
\_Exeiint. 

SCENE H.— OXFORD. CRAN- 
MER IN PRISON. 

Cranmer. Last night, I dream'd the 
fagots were alight, 



And that myself was fasten'd to the 

stake, 
And found it all a visionary flame, 
Cool as the light in old decaying wood ; 
And then King Harry look'd from out 

a cloud. 
And bade me have good courage ; and 

I heard 
An angel cry, " there is more joy in 

Heaven," — 
And after that, the trumpet of the dead. 
[ Trumpets zuiihoiit. 
Why, there are trumpets blowing now : 

what is it ? 

Enter Father Cole. 

Cole. Cranmer, I come to question 
you again; [Faith 

Flave you remain'd in the true Catholic 
I left you in .'' 

Cranmer. In the true Catholic faith, 
By Heaven's grace, I am more and 

more confirm' d. 
Why are the trumpets blowing, Father 
Cole ? 
Cole. Cranmer, it is decided by the 
Council 
That you to-day should read your re- 
cantation 
Before the people in St. Mary's 

Church. 
And there be many heretics in the town, 
Who loathe you for your late return to 

Rome, 
And might assail you passing through 

the street. 
And tear you piecemeal : so you have 
a guard. 
Cranmer. Or seek to rescue me. I 

thank the Council. 
Cole. Do you lack any money ? 
Cranmer. Nay, why should I: 

The prison fare is good enough for me. 
Cole. Ay, but to give the poor. 
Cranmer. Hand it me, then : 

I thank you. 

Cole. For a little space, farewell ; 

Until I see you in St. Mary's Church. 

{Exit Cole. 

Cranmer. It is against all prece* 

dent to burn 



59° 



QUEEN MARY 



One who recants ; they mean to pardon 

me. 
To give the poor — Ihcy give the poor 

who die. 
Well, burn me or not burn me, I am 

_ fixt; 
It is but a communion, not a mass: 
A holy supper not a sacrifice: 
No man can nrake his Maker — Villa 

Garcia. 

Eutcr Villa Garcia. 

Villa Garcia. Pray you write out 

this pauer for me, Cranmer, 
Crajwicr. Have I not writ enough 

to satisfy you } 
Villa Garcia. It is the last. 
Craniucr. Give it me, then. 

[i% writes. 
Villa Garcia. Now sign. 

Cranvier. I have sign'd enough, 

and I will sign no more. 
Villa Garcia. It is no more than 
what you have sign'd already. 
The public form thereof. 

Cranmer. It may be so ; 

I sign it with my presence, if I read it. 

Villa Qarcia. But this is idle of you. 

Well, sir, well, 

You are to beg the people to pray for 

you; [life ; 

Exhort them to a pure and virtuous 

Declare the Queen's right to the 

throne ; confess 
Your faith before all hearers; and re- 
tract 
That Eucharistic doctrine in your book. 
Will you not sign it now ? 

Cranmer. No, Villa Garcia, 

I sign no more. Will they have mercy 

on me ? 

Villa Garcia. Have you good hopes 

of mercy ! So, farewell \Exit. 

Cranmer. Good hopes, not theirs, 

have I that I am fixt, 

Fixt beyond fall ; however, in strange 

hours, 
After the long brain-dazing colloquies, 
And thousand-times recurring argu- 
ment 
Of those two friars ever in my prison, 



When left alone in my despondency, 
Without a friend, a book, my faith 

would seem 
Dead or half-drown'd, or else swam 

heavily 
Against the huge corruptions of the 

Church, 
Monsters of mistradition, old enough 
To scare me into dreaming, " what 

am I, 
Cranmer, against whole ages?" was 

it so, 
Or am I slandering my most inward 

friend, 
To veil the fault of my most outward 

foe — 
The soft and tremulous coward in the 

flesh } 

higher, holier, earlier, purer church, 

1 have found thee and not leave thee 

any more. 
It is but a communion, not a mass — 
No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast! 
{Writes.) So, so; this will I say — 

thus will I pray. {Puts up the paper. 

Enter Bonner. 

Bonner. Good-day, old friend; 

what, you look somewhat worn : 
And yet it is a day to test your health 
Ev'n at the best : I scarce have spoken 

with you 
Since when.? — your degradation. At 

your trial 
Never stood up a bolder man than you ; 
You would not cap the Pope's com- 
missioner — 
Your learning, and your stoutness, and 

your heres}', 
Dumfounded half of us So, after that, 
We had to dis-archbishop and unlord. 
And make you simple Cranmer once 

again. 
The common barber dipt your hair, 

and I 
Scraped from your finger-points the 

holy oil ; 
And worse than all, you had to kneel 

to me : 
Which was not pleasant for you, MaS' 

ter Cranmer. 



QUEEN MARY. 



59 



Now you, that would not recognize the 

Pope, 
And you, that would not own the Real 

Presence, 
Have found a real presence in the 

stake, 
Which frights you back into the an- 
cient faith; 
And so you have recanted to the Pope. 
How are the mighty fallen, Master 

Cranmer ! 
Cranmer. You have been more 

fierce against the Pope than I : 
But why fling back the stone he strikes 

me with ? [Aside. 

Bonner, if I ever did you kindness — 
Power hath been given you to try faith 

by fire — 
Pray you, remembering how yourself 

have changed, 
Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone, 
To the poor flock — to women and to 

children — [me. 

That when I was archbishop held with 

Bomier. Ay — gentle as they call you 

— live or die ! 
Pitiful to this pitiful heresy? 

1 must obey the Queen and Council, 

man. 

Win thro' this day with honor to your- 
self. 

And I'll say something for you — so — 
good-by. ' \^Exit. 

Cra7i77ier. This hard coarse man of 
oid hath crouch'd to me 

Till I myself was half ashamed for him. 

Enter Thirlby. 
Weep not, good Thirlby. 

Thirlby. O, my Lord, my Lord ! 

My heart is no such block as Bonner's 

is : 
Who would not weep ? 

Cranmer. W^hy do you so my-lord 
me. 
Who am disgraced ? 

Thirlby. On earth; but saved in 
heaven 
By your recanting. 

Cranmer, Will they burn me, 
Thirlby i» 



Thirlby. Alas, they will ; these burn- 
ings will not help 
The purpose of the faith; but my poor 

voice 
Against them is a whisper to the roar 
Of a spring tide. 

Cranmer- And they will surely burn 

me .'' 
Thirlby. Ay ; and besides, will have 

you in the church 
Repeat your recantation in the ears 
Of all men, to the saving of their souls, 
Before your execution. May God help 

you 
Thro' that hard hour. 

Cranmer. And may God bless you, 

Thirlby. 
Well, they shall hear my recantation 

there. [Exit Thirlby. 

Disgraced, dishonor'd ! — not by them^ 

indeed. 
By mine own self — by mine own hand ! 

thin-skinn'd hand and jutting veins, 

'twas you 
That sign'd the burning of poor Joan 

of Kent ; 
But then she was a witch. You have 

written much. 
But you were never raised to plead for 

Frith, 
Whose dogmas I have reach'd: he was 

deliver'd 
To the secular arm to burn : and there 

was Lambert ; 
Who can foresee himself "i truly these 

burnings, 
As Thirlby says, are profitless to the 

burners. 
And help the other side. You shall 

burn too. 
Burn first when I am burnt. 
Fire — inch by inch to die in agony! 

Latimer 
Had a brief end — not Ridley. Hooper 

burn'd 
Three-quarters of an hour. Will my 

fagots 
13e wet as his were .? It is a day of rain. 

1 will'not muse upon it. 

My fancy takes the burner's part, and 
makes 



592 



QUEEN MARY. 



The fire seem even crueller than it is. 
No, I not doubt that God will give me 

strength, 
Albeit I have denied him. 

Ejifcr Soto a?id\ii.iA Garcia. 

Villa Garcia. We are ready 

To take you to St. Mary's, Master 

Cranmer. 

Cranmer. And I : lead on ; ye loose 

me from my bonds. {Exeunt. 

SCENE III.— ST. MARY'S 
CHURCH. 

Cole in the Pulpit, Lord Williams 
OF Thame presiding. Lord Wil- 
liam Howard, Lord Paget, and 
others. Cranmer enters between 
Soto and Villa Garcia, a7td the 
luhole Choir strike up " Nunc Dimit- 
tis.^^ Cranmer is set upon a Scaf- 
fold before the i)eople. 

Cole. Behold him — 

\A pause ; people in the foreground. 
People. Oh, unhappy sight! 
First Protestant. See how the tears 

run down his fatherly face. 
Second Protestant. James, didst thou 
ever see a carrion crow 
Stand watching a sick beast before he 
dies ? 
First Protestant. Him perch'd up 
there.'' I wish some thunderbolt 
Would make this Cole a cinder, pulpit 

and all. 
. Cole. Behold him, brethren : he hath 

cause to weep ! — 
So have we all : weep with him if ye 

will, 
Yet— 

It is expedient for one man to die. 
Yea, for the people, lest the people 

die. 
Yet wherefore should he die that hath 

return'd 
To the one Catholic Universal Churchy 
Repentant of his errors .'' 

Protestant Murmurs. Aj, tell U9 
that 



Cole. Those of the wrong side will 

despise the man, 
Deeming him one that thro' the fear of 

death 
Gave up his cause, except he seal his 

faith 
In sight of all with flaming martyrdom 
Cranmer. Ay, 
Cole. Ye hear him, and albeit there 

may seem 
According to the canons pardon due 
To him that so repents, yet are there 

causes 
Wherefore our Queen and Council at 

this time 
Adjudge him to the death. He hath 

been a traitor, 
A shaker and confounder of the realm : 
And when the King's divorce was sued 

at Rome, 
He here, this heretic metropolitan. 
As if he had been the Holy Father, sat 
And judged it. Did I call him here- 
tic ? 
A huge heresiarch ! never was it 

known 
That any man so writing, preaching 

so, 
So poisoning the Church, so long con- 
tinuing, 
Hath found his pardon; therefore he 

must die. 
For warning and example. 

Other reasons 
There be for this man's ending, which 

our Queen 
And Council at this present deem it 

not expedient to be known. 
Protestant Murmurs. I warrant you. 
Cole. Take therefore, all, example 

by this man. 
For if our Holy Queen not pardon 

him. 
Much less shall others in like cause 

escape, 
That all of you, the highest as the 

lowest. 
May learn there is no power against 

the Lord. 
There stands a man, once of so high de- 
gree. 



QUEEN MARY. 



593 



Chief prelate of our Church, arch- 
bishop, first 

In Council, second person in the reahn, 

Friend for so long time of a mighty 
King; 

And now ye see downfallen and de- 
based 

From councillor to caitiff — fallen so 
low, 

The leprous flutterings of the byway 
scum 

And offal of the city would not change 

Estates with him ; in brief, so miser- 
able, 

There is no hope of better left for 
him, 

No place for worse. 

Yet, Cranrner, be thou glad. 

This is the work of God. lie is glori- 
fied 

In thy conversion: lo ! thou art re- 
claim'd ; 

He brings thee home: nor fear but 
that to day 

Thou shalt receive the penitent thief's 
award, 

And be with Christ the Lord in Para- 
dise. 

Remember how God made the fierce 
fire seem 

To those three children like a pleasant 
dew. 

Remember, too, 

The triumph of St. Andrew on his 
cross, 

The patience of St. Lawrence in the 
fire. 

Thus, if thou call on God and all the 
saints, 

■God will beat down the fury of the 
flame, 

Or give thee saintly strength to un- 
dergo. 

And for thy soul shall masses here be 
sung 

By every priest in O.xford. Pray for 
him. 
Cranrner. Ay, one and all^ dear 
brothers, pray for me ; 

Pray with one breath, one heart one 
soul; for me. 

38 ^ 



Cole. And now, lest any one among 

you doubt 
The man's conversion and remorse of 

heart, 
Yourselves shall hear him speak. 

Speak, Master Cranrner, 
Fulfil your promise made me, and pro- 
claim 
Your true undoubted faith, that all 

may hear. 
Cranvier. And that I will. O God. 

Father of Heaven ! 
O Son of God, Redeemer of the 

world ! [both; 

Holy Ghost ! proceeding from them 
Three persons and one God, have 

mercy on me, 
INIost miserable sinner, wretched man. 

1 have offended against heaven and 

earth 
More grievously than any tongue can 

tell. 
Then M-hither should I flee for any 

help.? 
I am ashamed to lift my eyes to 

Heaven, 
And I can find no refuge upon earth. 
Shall I despair then .?-— God forbid ! O 

God, 
For thou art m.erciful, refusing none 
That come to Thee for succor, unto 

Thee. 
Therefore, I come ; humble myself to 

Thee, 
Saying, O Lord God, although my 

sins be great. 
For thy great mercy have mercy ! O 

God the Son, 
Not for slight faults alone, when thou 

becamest 
Man in the Flesh, was the great mys- 
tery wrought ; 
O God the Father, not for little sins 
Didst thou yield up thy Son to human 

death ; 
But for the greatest sin that can \>z 

sinn'd, 
Yea, even such as mine, incalculable. 
Unpardonable, — sin against the light, 
The truth of God, which I had prover 

and known. 



594 



QUEEN MARY. 



Thy mercy must be greater than all 
sin. 

Forgive me, Father, for no merit of 
mine. 

But that Thy name by man be glori- 
fied, 

And Thy most blessed Son's, who 
died for man. 
Good people, every man at time of 
death 

Would fain set forth some saying that 
may live 

After his death and better human- 
kind ; 

For death gives life's last word a 
power to live, 

And, like the stone-cut epitaph, re- 
main [men. 

After the vanish'd voice, and speak to 

God grant me grace to glorify my 
God ! 

And. first I say it is a grievous case. 

Many so dote upon this bubble world, 

Whose colors in a moment break and 

fly, 

They care for nothing else. What 

saith St. John : — I 

"Love of this world is hatred against 

God." 
Again, I prj)^- vou all that, next to 

God, 
You do unmurmuringly and willingly 
Obey your King and Queen, and not 

for dread 
Of these alone, but from the fear of 

Him 
Whose ministers they be to govern 

you. 
Thirdly, I pray you all to love together 
Like brethren ; yet what hatred Chris- 
tian men 
Bear to each other, seeming not as 

brethren. 
But mortal foes ! But do vou good to 

all 
As much as in you lieth. Hurt no 

man more 
Than you would harm your loving 

natural brother 
Of the same roof, same breast. If any 

do. 



Albeit he think himself at home with 

God, 
Of this be sure, he is whole worlds 

away. 
Protestant Murmurs. W^hat sort of 

brothers then be those that lust 
To burn each other .^ 

Williams. Peace among you, there 
Crajimcr. Fourthly, to those that 

own exceeding wealth. 
Remember that sore saying spoken 

once 
By Him that was the truth, " how hard 

it is 
For the rich man to enter into Heav- 
en ; " 
Let all rich men remember that hard 

word. 
I have not time for more : if ever, 

now 
Let them flow forth in charity, seeing 

now 
The poor so many, and all food so 

dear. 
Long have I lain in prison, yet have 

heard 
Of. all their wretchedness. Give to 

the poor, 
Ye give to God. He is with us in the 

poor. 
And now, and forasmuch as I have 

come 
To the last end of life, and thereupon 
Hangs all my past, and all my life to 

be, 
Either to live with Christ in Heaven 

with joy, 
Or to be still in pain with devils in 

hell ; 
And, seeing in a moment, I shall find 

[Pointing npzvards. 
Heaven or else hell ready to swallow 

me, {Pointing down^uards. 

I shall declare to you my very faith 
Without all color. 

Cole. Hear him, my good brethren. 
Cranmer. I do believe in God, 

Father of all ; 
In every article of the Catholic faith, 
And every syllable taught us by our 

Lord, 



QUEEN MARY. 



595 



His prophets, and apostles, in the Tes- 
taments, 
Both Old and New. 

Cole. Be plainer, Master Cranmer. 
Cranmer. And now I come to the 

great cause that weighs 
Upon my conscience more than any 

. thing 
Or sakl or done in all my life by me ; 
For there be writings I have set abroad 
Against the truth I knew within my 

heart, [life. 

Written for fear of death, to save my 
If that might be ; the papers by my 

hand 
Sign'd since mv degradation — by this 

hand \_Holding out his 7'i^ht hand. 
Written and sign'd — 1 here renounce 

them all ; ■ 
And, since my hand offended, having 

written 
Against my heart, my hand shall first 

be burnt, 
So I may come to the fire, 

\DLad silence. 

Protestaii^ imirvmrs. 

First Frotestaut. I knew it would be 

so. 
Second Frotestant. Our prayers are 

heard ! 
Third Frotestant. God bless him ! 
Catholic Miirfmirs. Out upon him! 
out upon him ! 
Liar! dissembler! traitor! to the 
fire! 
Williams [raising his voice). You 
kno.v that you recanted all you 
said 
Touching the sacrament in that same 

book 
Vou wrote against my Lord of ^^'m- 

chcster ; 
•Dissemble not; play the plain Chris- 
tian man. 
Cranmer. Alas, my Lord, 
I have been a man loved plainness all 

my life ; 
I did dissemble, but the hour has come 
For utter truth and plainiiess ; where- 
fore, I sav, 



I hold by all I wrote within that book. 
Moreover, 

As for the Pope I count him Anti- 
christ, 
With all his devil's doctrines ; and re- 
fuse. 
Reject him, and abhor him. I have 
said. 
Cries {on all sides). Pull him down ! 

Away with him. 
Cole. Ay, stop the heretic's mouth. 

Hale him away. 
IVilliatiis. Harm him not, harm him 
not, have hmi to the fire. 
[Cranmer goes out betzveen two 
Friars, smiling ; hands are 
reached to him from the crozud. 
Lord William Howard and 
Lord Paget ai-e left alone in the 
Chnrch. 
Fuget. The nave and aisles all empty 
as a fool's jest ! 
No, here's Lord William Howard. 

What, my Lord, 
You have not gone to see the burning ? 
Howard. Fie ! 

To stand at ease, and stare as at a 
show, [again. 

And watch a good man burn ! Never 
I saw the deaths of Latimer and Rid- 

ley. 
Moreover, tho' a Catholic, I would not, 
For tp.e pure honor of our common 

nature. 
Hear what I might — another recanta- 
tion 
Of Cranmer at the stake. 

Faget. You'd not hear that. 

He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd 

upright ; 
His eye was like a soldier's, whom the 

general 
Lie looks to and leans on as his God, 
Hath rated for some backwardness and 

bidd'n him 
Charge one against a thousand, and 

the man 
Hurls his soil'd life against the pikes 
and dies. 
Howard. Yet that he might not af- 
ter all those papers 



596 



qUEEN MARY. 



Of recantation yield again, who knows ? 
Paget. Papers of recantation, think 

you then 
That Cranmer read all papers that he 

sign'd ? 
Or sign'd all those they tell us that he 

sign'd ? 
Nay, I trow not : and you shall sec, . 

my Lord, 
That howsoever hero-like the man 
Dies in the fire, this Bonner or an- 
other 
Will in some lying fashion misrcport 
His ending to the glory of their 

church. 
And you saw Latimer and Ridley die? 
Latimer was eighty, was he not ? his 

best 
Of life was over then. 

Hcntard. His eighty years 

Look'd somewhat crooked on him in 

. his frieze ; 
But after they had stript him to his 

shroud, 
He stood upright, a lad of twenty-one. 
And gather'd with his hands the start- 
ing flame. 
And wash'd his hands and all his face 

therein, 
Until the powder suddenly blew him 

dead. 
Ridley was longer burning ; but he 

died 
As manfully and boldly, and 'fore God, 
I know them heretics, but right Eng- 
lish ones. 
If ever, as heaven grant, we clash with 

Spain, 
Our Ridley-soldiers and our Latimer- 

sailors 
AVill teach her something. 

Paget. Your mild Legate Pole 

Wiirtell you that the devil helpt them 

thro' "it. 

[A imirmur of the Crowd in the 
distance. 
Hark, how those Roman wolfdogs howl 

and bay him. 
Ifo7uard.^W\^\. it not be the other 

side rejoicing 
]n his brave end ? 



Paget. They are too crush'd, too 

broken, 
They can but weep in silence. 

Ho7vard. Ay, ay, Paget, 

They have brought it in large measure 

on themselves. 
Have I not heard them mock the 

blessed Host 
In songs so lewd, the beast might roar 

his claim 
To being in God's image, more than 

they t 
Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the 

groom. 
Gardener, and huntsman, in the par- 
son's place, * 
The parson from his own spire swung 

out dead. 
And Ignorance crying in the streets, 

and all men 
Regarding her } I say they have drawn 

the fire 
On their own heads ! yet, Paget, I do 

hold 
The Catholic, if he have the greater 

right, 
Hath been the crueller. 

Paget. Action and re-action, 

The miserable see-saw of our child- 
world. 
Make us despise it at odd hours, my 

Lord. 
Heaven help that this re action not re- 
act 
Yet fiercelier under Queen Elizabeth, 
So that she come to rule us. 
Howard. The world's mad. 

Paget. My Lord, the world is like a 

drunken man, 
Who cannot move straight to his end 

— but reels 
Now to the right, then as far to the 

left, 
Push'd by the crowd beside — and un-. 

derfoot 
An earthquake ; for since Henry for a 

doubt — 
Which a voung lust had clapt upon 

the back, 
Crying, " Forward," — set our old 

church rocking, men 



QUEEN MARY. 



597 



Have hardly known what to believe, or 

whether 
They should believe in anything ; the 

currents 
So shift and change, they see not how 

they are borne, 
Nor whither. I conclude the King a 

beast ; 
Verily a lion if you will— the world 
A most obedient beast and fool — my- 
self 
Half beast and fool as appertaining to 

it ; 
Altho' your Lordship hath as little of 

each 
Cleaving to your original Adam-clay, 
As may be consonant with mortality. 
Howard We talk and Cranmer suf- 
fers 
The kindliest man I ever knew; see, 

see, 
I speak of him in the past. Unhappy 

land ! I 

Hard-natured Queen, half Spanish in j 
herself, i 

And grafted on the hard-graind stock 
of Spain— [lost 

Her life, since Philip left her, and she 
Her fierce desire of bearing him a 

child, 
flath, like a brief and bitter winter's 

day. 
Gone narrowing down and darkening 

to a close . 
There will be more conspiracies, I 
fear. 
Pa pet. Ay, av, beware of France, 
Naivard. ' O Paget, Paget ! 

I have seen heretics of the poorer sort, 
Expectant of the rack from day to day. 
To whom the fire were welcome, lying 

chain'd 
In breathless dungeons over steaming 

sewers, 
Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upon 

the tongue, 
And putrid water, every drop a worm, 
Until they died of rotted limbs ; and 

then 
Cast on the dunghill naked, and be- 
come 



Hideously alive again from head to 

heel. 
Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel 

vomit 
With hate and horror. 

Paget. Nay, you sicken me 

To hear you. 

Hczuard. Fancy-sick; these things 

are done. 
Done right against the promise of this 

Queen 
Twice given. 

Paget. No faith with heretics, my 

Lord! 
Hist! there be two old gossips— Cos 

pellers, 
I take it; stand behind the pillar 

here; 
I warrant you they talk about the burn- 
ing. 
Eiiter Two Old Women. Joan, and 
after her Tib. 

Joan. Why, it be Tib. 

Tib. I cum behind tha, gall, and 
couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the wind 
and the wet ! What a day, v/hat a 
day ! nigh upo' judgment daay loike. 
Pv.-oaps be pretty things, Joan, but 
they wunt set i' the Lords' cheer o' 
that daay. 

Joan. I must set down myself, Tib; 
it be a var waay vor my owld legs up 
vro' Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be that 
bad howiver be I to win to the 
burnin'. 

Tib. I should saay 'twur ower by 
now. I'd ha' been here avore, but 
Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, and 
Dumble's the best milcher in Islip. 

Joan. Our Daisy 's as good 'z her. 

Tib. Noa, Juan. 

Joan. Our Daisy's butter 's as good 
'z hern. 

Tib. Noa, Joon. 

Joan. Our Daisy's cheeses be better. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

Joan. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' me, 
Tib ; ez thou hast wi' thy owld man. 

Tib. Ay, Joan, and my owld man 
wur up and awaay betimes wi' dree hard 



59S 



QUEEiV MARY 



eggs for a good pleacc at the burnin': 
and barrin' tlie wet, Hodge 'ud ha 
been a-harro\viu' o' white peasen i' the 
outfield — and barrin' the wind, Dum- 
ble wur blow'd \vl' the wind, so 'z we 
was forced to stick her, but we fetched 
her round at last. Thank the Lord 
therevore. Dumbic 's the best milchcr 
in Islip. 

Joan. Thou 's thy way wi' man and 
beast, Tib. I wonder at tha', it beats 
me ! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps 
and vires be bad things ; tell 'ee now, 
1 heerd summat as summun towld 
summun o' owld Bishop Gardiner's 
end ; there wur an owld lord a-cum to 
dine wi' un, and a wur so owld a 
couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a had 
to bide howsomiver, vor " I wunt 
'dine," says my Lord Bishop, says he 
' not till I hears ez Latimer and Ridley, 
be a-vire ; " and so they bided on and 
ontillvour o' the clock, till his man 
cum in post vro' here, and tells un ez 
the vire has tuk holt. " Novv'," says the 
bishop, says he, " we'll gwo to din- 
ner ; " and the owid lord fell to 's meat 
wi' a will, God bless un ; but Gardiner 
wur struck down like by the hand o' 
God avore a could taste a mossel, and 
a set him all a-vire, so 'z the tongue on 
un cum a-lolluping out o' 'is mouth as 
black as a rat. Thank the Lord, there- 
vore. 

Pas^ef. The fools ! 

Tib. Ay, Joan ; and Queen iilary 
gwoes on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to git 
her-baahy born; but all her burnin's 
'ill never burn out the hypocrisy that 
makes the water in her. There 's 
nought but the vire of God's hell ez 
can burn out that. 

yoaii. Thank the Lord, therevore. 

Paget. The fools ! 

T/l). A-burnin', and a-burnin', and a- 
makin' o' volk madder and madder ; 
but tek thou my word vor 't, Joan — 
and I bean't wrong not twice i' ten 
year — the burnin' o' the owld arch- 
bishop 'II burn the Pvvoap out o' this 
'ere land vor iver and iver. 



Iloioard. Out of the church, you 

brace of cursed crones, 
Or I will have you duck'd. ( IVonioi 

Inirry cut.) Said I not right .? 
For how should reverend prelate or 

throned prince 
Brook for an hour such brute malig- 
nity.? 
Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther 

brew'd ! 
Paget Pooh, pooh, my Lord ! poor 

garrulous country-wives. 
Buy you their cheese's, and they'll side 

with you ; 
You cannot judge the liquor from the 

lees. 
Howard. I think that in some sort 

we may. But see, 

Enter PETERS. 

Peters, my gentleman, an honest Cath- 
olic, 

Who follow'd with the crowd to Cran- 
mer's fire. 

One that would neither misreport nor 
lie. 

Not to gain paradise : no, nor if the 
Pope 

Charged him to do it — he is white as 
death. 

Peters, how pale ycu look! you bring 
the smoke 

Of Cranmer'o burning with you. 

Peters. Twice or thrice 

The smoke of Cranmer's burning 
wrapt me round. 
Howard. Peters, you know me Cath- 
olic, but English. 

Did he die bravely .' Tell me that, or 
leave 

All else untold. 

Peters. My Lord, he died most 

bravely. 
Hoivard. Then tell me all. 
Paget. Ay, ALaster Peters, tell us. 
Peters. You saw him how lie past 
among the crowd ; 

And ever as he walk'd the Spanish 
friars 

Still plied him with entreaty and re- 
proach ; 



QUEEN MARY. 



599 



But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the 

hehn 
Steers, ever looking to the happy 

haven 
Where he shall rest at night, moved to 

his death ; 
And I could see that many silent 

hands 
Came from the crowd and met his 

own ; and thus, 
When we had come where Ridley 

burnt with Latimer, 
lie, with a cheerful smile, as one 

whose mind [rags 

Is all made up, in haste put off the 
They had mock'd his misery with, and 

all in white, 
His long white beard, v;hich he had 

never shaven 
Since Henry's death, down-sweeping 

to the chain 
Wherewith they bound him to the 

stake, he stood. 
More like an ancient father of the 

Church, 
Than heretic of these times; and still 

the friars 
Plied him, but Cranmer only shook 

his head, 
Or answer'd them in smiling negatives ; 
Whereat Lord Williams gave a 'sud- 
den, cry : — 
^' Make short ! make short ! " and so 

they lit the wood. 
Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to 

heaven. 
And thrust his right into Jhe bitter 

flame ; 
And crying, in his deep voice, more 

than once, 
" This hath offended — this unworthy 

hand ! " 
So held it till it all was burn'd, before 
The flame had reach'd his body ; I 

stood near — * 
Mark'd him — he never uttered moan 

of pain : 
He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a 

statue, 
Unmoving in the greatness of the 

flame, ^ 



Gave up the ghost ; and so past martyr- 
like— 
Martyr I may not call him— past — but 
whither ? 
Paget. To purgatory, man, to purga- 
tory. 
Peters. Nay, but my Lord, he denied 

purgatory. 
Paget. Why then to heaven, and God 

ha' mercy on him. 
Hcnvard. Paget, despite his fearful 
heresies, 
I loved the man, and needs must moan 

for him ; 
O Cranmer ! 
Paget. But your moan is useless 
now : 
Come out, my Lord, it is a world of 
fools. \Exeunt. 



ACT V. 

SCENE L— LONDON. IL'\LL IN 
THE PALACE. 

Queen, Sir Nicholas Heath. 

Heath. Madam, 
I do assure you that it must be look'd 

to: 
Calais is but ill-garrison\l, in Guisnes 
Are scarce two hundred men, and the 

French fleet 
Rule in the narrow sea^. It must be 

look'd to, 
If war should fall between yourself and 

France ; 
Or you will lose your Calais. 

Mary. It shall be look'd to ; 

I wish you a good-morning, good Sir 

Nicholas : 
Here is the King, {Exit Heath. 

Enter Philip. 

Philip. Sir Nicholas tells ycu true, 
And you must look to Calais when I 
go. 
Mary. Go ! must you go, indeed — 
again — so soon ? 



QUEEN MARY. 



Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the 

swallow, 
That might live always in the sun's 

warm heart, 
Stays longer here in our poor north 

than you : — 
Knows where he nested — ever comes 

again. 

hilip. 

Mary. O, will you ? will you ? 

I am faint with fear that you will come 

no more. 
Philip. Ay, ay ; but many voices call 

me hence. 
Mary. Voices — I hear unhappy ru- 
mors — nay, 
I say not, I believe. What voices call 

you 
Dearer than mine that should be dear- 
est to you .'' 
Alas, my Lord ! what voices and how 

many ? 
Philip. The voices of Castile and 

Aragon, 
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan, — 
The voices of Franche-Comte, and the 

Netherlands, 
The voices of Peru and Mexico, 
Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines, 
And all the fair spice-islands of the 

East. 
Mary [admiringly). You are the 

mightiest menarch upon earth, 
I but a little Queen : and so, indeed,. 
Need you the more; and wherefore 

could you not' 
Helm the huge vessel of your state, 

my liege. 
Here, by the side of her who loves you 

most .'' 
Philip. No, Madam, no ! a candle in 

the sun [moon 

Is all but smoke — a star beside the 
Is all but lost; your people will not 

crown me — 
Your people are as cheerless as your 

clime; 
Hate me and mine : witness the 

brawls, the gibbets. 
Here swings a Spaniard— there an 

Englishman ; 



The peoples are unlike as their com- 
plexion ; 
Yet will I be your swallo\V and re- 
turn — 
But now I cannot bide. 

Mary. Not to help jue ? 

They hate jue also for my love to you, 
My Philip ; and these judgments on 
the land — 
j Plarvestless autumns, horrible agues, 
plague- 
TV///.;)^. The blood and sweat of 
heretics at the stake 
Is God s best dew wpow the barren 

field. 
Burn more ! 

Mary, I v/ill, I will ; and you-, will: 

stay. 
Philip. Have I not said 1 Madam, I 
came to sue [war. 

Your Council and yourself to declare 
Mary. Sir, there are many English 
in your ranks 
To help your battle. 

Philip. So far, good. I say 

I came to sue vour Council and your- 
self 
To declare war against the King of 
France. 
Mary-. Not to see me ? 
Philip. Ay, Madam, to see you. 

Unalterably and pesteringty fond ! 

\_Aside. 
But, soon or late you must have war 

with France; 
King Henry warms your traitors at his. 

hearth. • 
Carevv is there, and Thom.as Stafford 

there. 
Courtena}', belike — 
Mary. A fool and featherhead ! 

Philip. Ay, but they use his name. 
In brief, this Henry 
Stirs up your land agajnst you to the 

intent 
That you may lose your English herm- 
itage. 
And then, your Scottish namesake 

marrying 
The Dauphin, he would weld France, 
England, Scotland, 



QUEEN MARY. 



toi 



Into one sword to hack at Spain and 

me. 
Alary. And yet the Fope is now col- 
leagued with France ; 
You make your wars upon him down 

in Italy : — 
Philip, can that be well ? 

Phi lip. Content you, Madam ; 

You must abide my judgment, and my 

father's, 
Who deems it a most just and holy 

war. 
The Pope would cast the Spaniard 

out of Naples: 
He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, 

Saracens. 
The Pope has push'd his horns beyond 

his mitre — 
Beyond his province. Now, 
Duke Alva will but touch him, on the 

horns, 
And he withdraws; and of his holy 

head — 
For Alva is true son of the true 

church — 
No hair is harm'd. Will you not help 

me here ? 
Mary. Alas ! the Council will not 

hear of war. 
They say your wars are not the wars 

of England. 
They will not lay more taxes on a land 
So hunger-nipt and wretched; and you 

know 
The crown is poor. We have given 

the church-lands back ; 
The nobles would not ; nay, they clapt 

their hands 
Upon their swords when ask'd; and 

therefore God 
Is hard upon the people. What's to 

be done ? 
Sir, I will move them in your cause 

again, 
And,w^e will raise us loans and sub- 
sidies 
Among the merchants ; and Sir 

Thomas Gresham 
Will aid us. There is Antwerp ajid 

the Jews. 
Philip. Madam, my thanks. 



Mary. And you will stay your going-? '• 
Philip. And further to discourage 
and lay lame 
The plots of France, altho' you levesr 

her not, 
You must proclaim Elizabeth your 

heir. 
She stands between you and the Quft* ^ 
of Scots. 
Mary. The Queen of Scots, at 11? j^^t 

is Catholic. 
Philip. Ay, Madam, Cat^olicc . but 
I will not have 
The King of France the King, -of Eng- 
land too. 
Ma7y But she's a heretic;,qi' ad, when 
I am gone, 
Brings the new learning, bairJ .. 

Philip It vans t be done. 

You must proclaim Elis? ^beth your 
heir. 
Maiy Then it is done-; but you will 
stay your going 
Somewhat beyond your settled pur- 
pose > 
Philip. No r 

Mary What, not one day ? 
Philip. Y<ou beat upon the rock 

Mary. And I am broken there. 
Philip. Is this a place 

To wail in^ Madam ? what ! a public 

hall. 
Go in, I pray you. 

Mary. Do not seem so changed. 

Say go ; but only say it lovingly. 
Philip. Xow do mistake. I am not 
one to chanfve. 
I never loved yr>u more. 

Mary, Sire, I obey you. 

Come quickly. 

Philip. Ay. \^Exit Mary. 

Enter CoUNT DE Feria. 

Feria [aside). The Queen in tears. 
Philip. Feria ! 

Hast thou not mark'd — come closer to 

mine ear — 
How doubly aged this Queen of ours 

hath grown 
Since she lost hope of bearing us a 
child ? 



6o2 



QUEEN MARY. 



Fcria. Sire, if your Grace hath 

mark'd it, so have I. 
PJiilip. Hast thou not likewise 
inark'd Elizabeth, 
How fair and royal — like a Queen, in- 
deed ? 
Fcria, Allow me the same answer 
as before — 
That if your Grace hath mark'd her, 
so have I. 
rhilip. Good, now ; methinks my 
Queen is like enough 
To leave me by and by. 

Feria. To leave you, sire ? 

Philip, I mean not like to live. 
Elizabeth — 
To Philibert of Savoy, as you know. 
We meant to wed her ; but I am not 

sure 
She will not serve me better — so my 

Queen 
Would leave me — as— my wife. 
Feria. Sire, even so. 

Philip She will not have Prince 

Philibert of Savoy. 
Feria. No, sire, 

Philip. I have to pray you, some odd 
time, 
To sound the Princess carelessly on 

this; 
Not as from me, but as your fantasy; 
And tell me how she takes it. 
Feria. Sire, I will. 

Philip. I am not certain but that 
Philibert 
Shall be the man; and I shall urge his 

suit 
Upon the Queen, because I am not 

certain : 
You understand, Feria. 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. And if you be not secret in 
this matter, 
You understand me there, too-? 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. You must be sweet and sup- 
ple, like a Frenchman. 
She is none of those who loathe the 
honey-comb. \Exit Feria. 



Enter Renard. 

Renard. My licgc, I bring you goodly 

tidings. 
Philip. W^ell. 

Reimrd. There will be war with 

France, at last, my liege ; 
Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-hcadcd 

ass. 
Sailing from France, with thirty I'>ng- 

lishmen, 
Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of 

York ; 
Proclaims himself protector, and af- 
firms 
The Queen has forfeited her right to 

reign 
By marriage with an alien — other 

things 
As idle ; a weak Wyatt \ Little doubt 
This buzz will soon be silenced ! but 

the Council 
(I have talk'd with some already) are 

for war. 
This is the fifth conspiracy hatch 'd in 

France ; 
They show their teeth upon it ; and 

your Grace, 
So you will take advice of mine, should 

' stay 
Yet for a while, to shape and guide the 

event. 
Philip. Good ! Renard, I will stay 

then. 
Renard. Also, sire. 
Might I not say — to please your wife, 

the Queen ^ 
Philip. Ay, Renard, if you care to 

put it so. {Exeunt. 

SCENE n. — A ROOM IX THE 
PALACE. 

]\L\RY and Cardinal Pole. Lady 
Claren'CE and Alice in the baek- 
ground. 

Mary. Reginald Pole, what news 
hath plagued thy heart } 
What makes thy favor like the blood- 
less head 



QUEEN MARY. 



603 



Fall'n on the block, and held up bv the 
hair ? 

Philip ?— 

Pole. No, Philip is as warm in life 

As ever. 

Mary. Ay, and then as cold as ever 

Is Calais taken ? 
Pole. Cousin, there hath chanced 

A sharper harm to England and to 
Rome, 

Than Calais taken. Julius the Third 

Was ever just, and mild, and father- 
like ; 

But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the 
Fourth, 

Not only reft me of that legateship 

Which Julius gave me, and the legate- 
ship 

Annex'd to Canterbury — nay, but 
worse — 

And yet. I must obey the holy father, 

And so must you, good cousin ; — worse 
than all, 

A passing bell toll'd in a dying car — 

He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy. 

Before his Inquisition. 
Mary. I knew it, cousin. 

But held from you all papers sent by 
Rome, 

That you might rest among us, till the 
Pope, 

To compass which I wrote myself to 
Rome, 

Reversed his doom, and that you might 
not seem 

To disobey his Holiness. 

Pole-. He hates Philip; 

He is all Italian, and he hates the 
Spaniard ; 

He cannot dream that / advised the 
war ; 

lie strikes thro' me at Philip and your- 
self. 

Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me 
too ; [dom 

So brands me in the stare of Christen- 

A heretic ! 

Now, even now, when bow'd before 
my time. 

The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be 
out ; 



\Vhen I should guide the Church in 
peace at home. 

After my twenty years of banishment, 

And all my lifelong labor to uphold 

The primacy — a heretic. Long ago, 

When I was ruler in the patrimony, 

I was too lenient to the Lutheran, 

And I and learned friends among our- 
selves 

Would freely canvass certain Luther- 
anisms. 

W'hat then, he knew I was no Lu- 
theran. 

A heretic ! [head, 

He drew this shaft against me to the 

When it was thought I might be 
chosen Pope, 

But then withdrew it. In full con- 
sistory, 

\Vhen I was made Archbishop, he ap- 
proved me. 

And how should he have sent me 
Legate hither. 

Deeming me heretic ? and what heresy 
since ? 

But he was evermore mine enemy, 

And hates the Spaniard — fiery-chol- 
eric, 

A drinker of black, strong, volcanic 
wines, 

That ever make him fierier. I, a her- 
etic ! 

Your Highness knows that in pursuing 
heresy 

I have gone beyond your late Lord 
Chancellor, — 

He cried Enough ! enough ! before his 
death,— 

Gone beyond him and mine own nat- 
ural man 

(It was God's cause) ; so far they call 
me now, 

The scourge and butcher of their Eng 
lish church. 
Mary. Have courage, your reward is 

heaven itself. 
Pole. They groan amen ; they swarm 
into the fire 

Like flies— for what ? no dogma. They 
know nothing, 

They burn for nothing. 



6o4 



QUEEAT MARV. 



Mary. You have done your best. 
Pole. Have done my best, and as a 

faithful son, 
That all day long hath wrought his 

father's work, 
When back he comes at evening hath 

the door 
Shut on him In- the father whom he 

loved, 
His early follies cast into Jiis teeth, 
And the poor son turn.'d out into the 

street 
To sleep, to die — T shall die of it, 

cousin. 
Mary. I pray you be not so discon- 
solate ; 
I still will do mine utmost with the 

Pope. 
Poor cousin. 
Have I not been the fast friend of vour 

life 
Since mine began, and it was thought 

we two 
Might make one flesh, and cleave unto 

each other 
As man and wife. 

Pole. . Ah, colisin, I remember 

How I would dandle you upon my 

knee 
At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing 

once 
With your huge father ; he look'd the 

Great Harry, 
You but his cockboat ; prettily you did 

it. 
And innocently. No — we were not 

made [here ; 

One flesh in happiness, no happiness 
But now we are made one flesh in 

misery ; 
Our bridemaids are not lovely — Disap- 
pointment, 
Ingratitude, In.justice, Evil-tongue, 
Labor-in-vain. 

Mary. Surely, not all in vain. 

Peace, cousin, peace ! I am sad at 

heart myself. 
Pole. Our altar is a mound of dead 

men's clay, 
Dug from the grave that yawns for us 

beyond ; 



And there is one Death stands behind 

the Groom, 
And there is one Death stands behind 

the Bride— 
Mary. Have you been looking at the 

" Dance of Death .? " 
Pole. No ; but these libellous papers 

which I found 
Strewn in your palace. Look you 

here — the Pope 
Pointing at me with " Pole, the her- 
etic, 
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn 

thyself. 
Or I will burn thee," and this other ; 

see! — 
"We" pray continually for the death 
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal 

Pole." 
This last — I dare not read it her. 

[Aside. 
3 fury. Away', 

WHiy clo you bring me these ? 
I thought you knew me better. I 

never read, 
I tear them ; they come back upon my 

dreams. 
The hands that write them should be 

burnt clean off 
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that ut 

ter them 
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to 

death, or lie 
Famishing in black cells, while fam- 
ish 'd rats 
Eat them alive. Why do they bring 

me these ? 
Do you mean to drive me mad? 

Pole. I had forgotten 

How these poor libels trouble you. 

Your pardon. 
Sweet cousin, and farewell ! " O bub- 
ble world. 
Whose colors in a moment break and 

fly ! " 
Why, who said that ? I know not — 

true enough ! 

[Pitts up the papers, all hut the last, 
which falls. Exit Pole. 
Alice. If Cranmer's spirit were a 

mocking one. 



QUEEN MARY. 



605 



And heard these two, there might be 

sport for him. \Aside. 

Mary. Clarence, they hate me ; even 

while I speak 

There lurks a silent dagger, listening 

In some dark closet, some long gallery, 

drawn, 
And panting for my blood as I go by. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, Madam, there 
be loyal papers too. 
And I have often found them. 
Mary. Find me one ! 

Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam ; but Sir 
Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor, 
Would see your Highness. 

Alary. Vv herefore should I se€ him ? 
Lady Clarence. Well, Madam, he may 

bring you news from Philip. 
Mary. So, Clarence. 
Lady Clarence. Let me first put up 
your hair ; 
It tumbles all abroad. 

Mary. And the gray dawn 

Of an old age that never will be mine 
Is all the clearer seen. No, no ; what 

matters .'' 
Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. 

Enter SiR Nicholas Heath. 

Heath. I bring your Majesty such 
grievous news 
I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is 
taken. 
Mary. What traitor spoke ? Here, 
let my cousin Pole 
Seize him and burn him for a Lu- 
theran. 
Heath. Her Highness is unwell. I 

will retire. 
Lady Clarence. Madam, your chan- 
cellor, Sir Nicholas Heath. 
Mary. Sir Nicholas ? I am stunn'd 
— Nicholas Fleath ? 
Methought some traitor smote me on 

the head. 
What said you, my good Lord, that 

our brave English 
Had sallied out from Calais and driven 

back 
The Frenchmen from their trenches ? 
Heath. Alas! no. 



That gateway to the mainland ovei 

which 
Our flag hath floated for two hundred 

years 
Is France again. 

Mary. So; but it is not lost — 

Not vet. S'end out : let England as of 

old 
Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep 

into 
The prey they are rending from her — 

ay, and rend 
The renders too. Send out, send out, 

and make 
Musters in all the counties; gather 

all 
From sixteen years to sixty ; collect 

the fleet ; 
Let every craft that carries sail and 

gun ' 
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not 
taken yet ? 
Heath. Guisnes is not taken yet. 
Mary. There yet is hope. 

Heath. Ah, Madam, but your people 
are so cold ; 
I do much fear that England will not 

care. 
Methinks there is no manhood left 
among us. 
Mary. Send out ; I am too weak to 
stir abroad ; 
Tell my mind to the Council — to the 
Parliament; 
j Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art 
1 cold thyself 

I To babble of their coldness. O would 
I I were 

I My father for an hour ! Away now — 
\ quick! [iS'jr// Heath. 

j I hoped I had served God with all my 

might ! 
I It seems I have not. Ah! much 
! heresy 

I Sheltered in Calais. Saints, I have 
j rebuilt 

j Your shrines, set up your broken 
I images ; 

Be comfortable to me. Suffer not' 
I That my brief reign in England be de- 
I famed 



6o6 



QUEEN MARY. 



Thro' all her angry chronicles here- 
after 
By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. 

Philip, 
We have made war upon the Holy 

Father 
All for your sake : what good could 
come of that ? 
Lady ClareJice. No, Madam, not 
against the Holy Father; 
Vou did but help King Philip's war 

with France. 
Your troops were never down in Italy. 
Mary. I am a byword. Heretic and 
rebel 
Point at me and make merry. Philip 

gone ! 
And Calais gone I Tim.e that I were 
gone too ! 
Lady Clarence. Nay, if the fetid gut- 
ter had a voice 
And cried I was jiot clean, what should 

I care ? 
Or you, for heretic cries? And I be- 
lieve, [olas 
Spite of your melancholy Sir Nich- 
Your England is as loyal as myself. 
Mary {sccino the paper dropt by Pole). 
There, there ! another paper ! Said 
you not 
Many of these were loyal ? Shall I 

try 
If this be one of such ? 

Lady Clarence. Let it be, let it be. 

God pardon me ! I have never yet 

found one. \Aside. 

Mary [reads). " Your people hate 

you as your husband hates you." 

Clarence, Clarence, what have I done ? 

what sin 
Beyond all grace, all pardon ? Mother 

of God, 
Thou kuowest never woman meant so 

well, 
And fared so ill in this disastrous 

world. 
My people hate me and desire my 
death. 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam, no. 
Marv. My husband hates me, and 
desires mv death. 



Lady Clarence. No, Madam ; these 

are libels. 
Mary. I hate niyself, and I desire my 

death. 
Lady Clarence. Long live your Maj- 
esty! Shall Alice sing you 
One of her pleasant songs .'' Alice, mv 

child. 
Bring us your lute. (Alice ^^^j.) They 

say the gloom of Saul 
Was lighten'd by young David's harp. 
Mary. Too young ! 

And never knew a Philip. (Re-enter 

Alice.) Give tne the lute. 
He hates me ! 

[S/ie sings. ) 

Hapless doom of woman, happy in betrothing! 

Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in 
loathing : 

Low, my lute ; speak low, my lute, but say the 
world is nothing — 

Low, lute, low! 

Love will hover round the flowers when they 
first awaken ; 

Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be over- 
taken ; 

Low, my lute ! oh low, my lute ! we fade and 
are forsaken — 

Low, dear lute, low! 

Take it away! not low enough for me! 

Alice. Your Grace hath a low voice. 

Mary. How dare you say it .' 

Even for that he hates me. A low 

voice 
Lost in a wilderness where none can 

hear ! 
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless 

sea ! 
A low voice from the dust and from the 

grave, [Sitting on the ground.) 
There, am I low enough now 'i 

Alice. Good Lord ! how grim and 

ghastly looks her Grace, 
With both her knees drawn upward to 

her chin. 
There was an old-world tomb beside 

my father's. 
And this was open'd, and the dead 

were found 
Sitting, and in this fashion; she looks 

a corpse. 



QUEEN MARY 



607 



Enter Lady Magdalen Dacres. 

Lady i\Ia:fciale}i. Madam, the Count 
de Feria waits without, 
In hopes to see your Highness. 

Lady Clarence {pointing to Mary). 
Wait he must — 
Her trance again. She neither sees 

nor hears, 
And may not speak for hours. 

Lady Magdalen. Unhappiest 

Of Queens and wives and women. 
Alice [in the foreground tvith Lady 
Magdalen). And all along 
Of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen. Not so loud ! Our 

Clarence there 

Sees ever such an aureole round the 

Queen, [peace, 

It gilds the greatest wronger of her 

Who stands the nearest to her. 

Alice. Ay, this Philip; 

I used to love the Queen with all my 

heart — [less 

God help me, but methinks I love her 

For such a dotage upon such a man. 

I would I were as tall and strong as 

you. 

Lady Magdalen. I seem half-shamed 

at times to be so tall. 
Alice. You are the stateliest deer in 
all the herd — 
Beyond his aim — but I am small and 

scandalous, 
And love to hear bad tales of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen: Why } 

I never heard him utter worse of you 
Than that you were low-statured. 

Alice. Does he think 

Low stature is low nature, or all 

women's 
Low as his own ? 

Lady Magdalen. There you strike in 
the nail. 
This coarseness is a want of fantasy. 
It is the low man thinks the woman 

low ; 
Sin is too dull to see beyond himself. 
Alice. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as 
well as dull. 
How dared he ,' 



Lady Magdalen. Stupid soldiers oft 

are bold. 
Poor lads, they see not what the gen- 
eral sees, 
A risk of utter ruin. I am not 
Beyond his aim, or was not. 

Alice. Who ? Not you } 

Tell, tell me : save mv credit with mv- 

self. 
Lady Magdalen. I never breathed it 

to a bird in the eaves, 
Would not for all the stars and maiden 

moon 
Our drooping Queen should know I 

In Hampton Court 
My window look'd upon the corridor ; 
And I was robing; — this poor throat 

of mine, 
Barer than I should wish a man to see 

it,— 

When he we speak of drove the win- 
dow back, 

And, like a thief, push'd in his royal 
hand ; 

But bv God's providence a good stout 
staff 

Lay near me ; and you know me strong 
of arm ; 

I do believe I lamed his Majesty's 

For a day or two, tho', give the Devil 
his due, 

I never found he bore me any spite. 
Alice. I would she could have wed- 
ded that poor youth. 

My Lord of Devon — light enough, God 
knows. 

And mixt with Wyatt's rising — and the 
boy 

Not out of him — but neither cold, 
coarse, cruel, 

And more than all — no Spaniard. 
Lady Clarence. Not so loud. 

Lord Devon, girls ! what are you whis- 
pering here ? 
Alice. Probing an old state secret — 
' how it chanced 

That this young Earl was sent on for- 
eign travel. 

Not lost his head. 

Lady Clarence. There was no proof 
against him. 



6o8 



QUEEN MARY, 



Alice. Nay, Madam; did not Gar- 
diner intercept 
A letter which the Count de NoaiDes 

wrote 
To that dead traitor, Wyatt, Avith full 

proof 
-«0f Courtenay's treason ? What be- 
came of that ? 
Lady Clarc7ice. Some say that Gar- 
diner, out of love for him, 
Burnt it, and some relate that it was 

lost 
When Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's 

house in Southwark. 
Let dead things rest. 

Alice. Ay, 
Alone in Italy. 

Lady Clarence. Much changed, I 
hear. 
Had put off levity and put graveness 

on. 
The foreign courts report him in his 

manner 
NoWle as diis young person and old 

shield. 
It might be so — but all is over now; 
\\s <caught a chill in the lagoons of 

VMenice, 
Aaid'died in Padua. 

Mary [looking up suddenly). Died in 

the true faith ? 
Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam, happily. 
Mary. Happier he than I. 
Lady Magdalen. It seems her High- 
ness hath awaken'd. Think you 
'That I might dare to tell her that the 
Count — 
Mary. I will see no man hence for- 
evermore, 
Saving my confessor and mv cousin 
Pole. 
Lady Magdalen. It is the Count de 

P'eria, my dear lady. 
Mary. What Count } 
Lady Magdalen. The Count de Fe- 
ria, from his Majesty 
King Philip. 

Mary. Philip! quick! loop up my 
hair ! 
Throw cushions on that seat, and 
make it throne-like. 



Arrange my dress — the gorgeous In- 
dian shawl 
That Philip brought me in our happy 

days ! — 
That covers all. So — am I somewhat 

Queenlike, 
Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon 

earth .-* 
Lady Clarence. Ay, so your Grace 

would bide a moment yet. 
Mary. No, no, he brings a letter. I 

may die 
Before I read it. Let me see him at 

once. 

Enler Count de Feria [kneels). 

Feria. I trust your Grace is well. 

[Aside.) How her hand burns. 
Mary. I am not well, but it will bet- 
ter me. 
Sir Count, to read the letter which you 
bring. 
Feria. Madam, I bring no letter. 
Mary. How ! no letter ? 

Feria. His Highness is so vex'd with 

strange affairs — 
Mary. That his own wife is no affair 

of his. 
Feria. Nay, Madam, nay ! he sends 
his veriest love. 
And says, he will come quickly. 

Mary. Doth he, indeed? 

You, sir, do yo7i remember what ycu 

said 
When last you came to England.'' 

Feria. Madam, I brought 

My King's congratulations; it was 

hoped 
Your Highness was once more in 

happy state 
To give him an heir male. ^ 

Mary. Sir, you said more ; 

You said he would come quickly. I 

had horses [night ; 

On all the road from Dover, day and 

On all the road from Harwich, night 

and day ; 
But the child came not, and the hus- 
band came not; 
And yet he will come quickly. , . ^ . 
Thou hast learnt ■ '• ■ 



QUEEN MARY. 



609 



Thy lesson, and I mine. There is nq 

need 
For Philip so to shame himself again. 
Return, 
And tell him that I know he comes no 

more. 
Tell him at last I know his love is 

dead. 
And that I am in state to bring forth 

death — 
Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth, 
And not to me 

Feria. Mere compliments and wishes. 
But shall I take some message from 

your Grace .'' 
Mary. Tell her to come and close 

my dying eyes, , 
And wear my crown, and dance upon 

my grave. 
Feria. Then I may say your Grace 

will see your sister ? 
Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air 

and sunshine. 
I would we had you, Madam, in our 

warm Spain. 
You droop in your dim London. 

Mary. Have him away, 

I sicken of his readiness. 

Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, 

Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. 
Feria (Jzneels, and kisses her hand). I 

wish her Highness better. {Aside.) 

How her hand burns. \^ExetmL 

SCENE HL— A HOUSE NEAR 
LONDON. 

Elizabeth. Steward of the Ho jse- 
HOLD, Attendants. 

Elizabeth. There's half an angel 
wrong'd in your account ; 
Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it 
Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er 
again. 
Reward. I were VN'hole devil if I 
wrong'd you. Madam. • 

\^Exit Steward, 
Attendant. The Count de Feria, from 

the King of Spain. 
Elizabeth. Ah ! — let him enter. Nay, 
jou need not go ; [7c? her Ladies. 

39 



Remain within the chamber, but apart. 
We'll have no private conference. 
Welcome to England ! 

Enter Feria. 

Feria. Fair island star. 

Elizabeth. I shine ! What else, Sir 

Count ? 
Feria. As far as France, and into 
Philip's heart. 
My King would know if you be fairly 

served. 
And lodged, and treated. 

Elizabeth. You see the lodging, sir, 
I am well served, and am in every 

thing 
Most loyal and most grateful to the 
Queen. 
Feria. You -should be grateful to my 
master, too, 
He spoke of this; and unto him vou 
owe [heir. 

That Mary hath acknowledged you her 
Elizabeth. No, not to her nor him ; 
but to the people. 
Who know my right, and love me, as I 

love 
The people ! whom God aid ! 

Feria. You will be Queen. 

And, were I Philip — 

Elizabeth. Wherefore pause vou — 

what .? 
Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine 
own self, not him : 
Your royal sister cannot last ; your 

hand 
Will be much coveted ! What a deli- 
cate one ! 
Our Spanish ladies have none such — 

and there, 
Were you in Spain, this fine fair gos- 
samer gold — 
j Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty 
I dawn — 

I That hovers round your shoulder — 
I Elizabeth. Is it so fine ? 

' Troth, some have said so. 
j Feria. — would be deemed a mir- 
acle. 
I Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold 
hair and golden beard, 



6io 



^UEEN MARY. 



There must be ladies many with hair 

]ike mine. 
Feriiu Some few of Gothic blood 

have golden hair, 
But none like yours. 
Elizabeth. I am happy you approve 

it. 
Feria. But as to Philip and your 

Grace — consider, — 
If such a one as you should match with 

Spain, 
What hinders but that Spain and Eng- 
land join'd, 
Should make the mightiest empire 

earth has known. 
Spain would be England on her seas, 

and England 
Mistress of the Indies. 
Elizabeth. It may chance, that Eng- 
land 
Will be the mistress of the Indies yet, 
Without the help of Spain. 

Feria. Impossible ; 

Except you put Spain down. 
Wide of the mark ev'nfor a madman's 

dream. 
Elizabeth. Perhaps ; but we have 

seamen. Count de Feria, 
\ take it that the King hath spoken to 

you ; 
But is Don Carlos such a goodly 

match ? 
Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but 

twelve years old. 
Elizabeth. Ay, tell the king that I 

will muse upon it ; 
He- is my good friend, and I would 

keep him so ; 
But — he would have me Catholic of 

Rome, [now 

And that I scarce can be ; and, sir, till 
My sister's marriage, and my father's 

marriages, 
Make me full fain to live and die a 

maid. 
But I am much beholden to your 

King. 
Have you aught else to tell me ? 

Feria. Nothing, Madam, 

Save that methought I gather'd from 

the Queen 



That she would see your Grace before 

she — died. 
Elizabeth. God's death ! and where- 
fore spake you not before .'' 
We dally with our lazy moments hr"c 
And hers are number'd. Horses th^/"' , 

without ! 
I am much beholden to the Ki.ig, yc ^ 

master. 
Why did you keep me prr^,?ing ? 

Horses, there ! 

\Exit ELr^ABETH, etc. 
Feria. So from a ele iJ sky falls the 

thunderbolt ! 
Don Carlos .'' Madiv-Ti, if you marry 

Philip, 
Then I and he will snaffle your "God's 

death," 
And break your paces in, and make 

you tame ; 
God's death, forsooth — you do not 

know King Philip. [Exit. 

SCENE IV.— LONDON. BEFORE 
THE PALACE. 

A light burning ivithin. Voices of the 
night passing. 

First. Is not yon light in the Queen's 

chamber .? 
Second. Ay, 

They say she's dying. 

First. So is Cardinal Pole 

May the great angels join their wings 

and make 
Down for their heads to heaven ! 
SecoJid. Amen. Come on. [Exeunt 

Two Others. 

First. There's the Queen's light. I 

hear she cannot live. 
Second. God curse her and her Leg- 
ate ! Gardiner burns 
Already ; but to pay them full in kind, 
The hottest hold in all the devil's den 
W^ere but a sort of winter; sir, in 

Guernsey, 
I watch'd a woman Innn ; nnd in her 
agonj 



QUEEN MARY. 



6ij 



The mother came upon her — a child 

was born — 
And, sir, they hurl'd it back into the 

fire, 
That, being but baptized in fire, the 

babe 
Might be in fire forever. Ah, good 

neighlK>r, 
There should be something fierier than 

fire 
To yield them their deserts. 

Eh'sf. Amen to all 

You wish, and further. 

A Third Voice. Deserts ! Amen to 
what.'* Whose deserts .'' Yours.-* You 
have a gold ring on your finger, and 
soft raiment about your body ; and is 
not the woman up yonder sleeping af- 
ter all she has done, in peace and 
quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed 
room, with light, fire, physic, tendance; 
and I have seen the true men of 
Christ lying famine-dead by scores, and 
under no ceiling but the cloud that 
wept on them, not for them. 

First. Friend, tho' so late, it is not 

safe to preach. 
You had best go home. \Vhat are 

you .'* 
Third. What am I .'' One who cries 
continually with sweat and tears to the 
Lord God that it would please Him 
out of His infinite love to break dov.'n 
all kingship and queenship, all priest- 
hood and prelacy ; to cancel and abol- 
ish all bonds of human allegiance, all 
the magistracy, all the nobles, and all the 
wealthy; and to send us again, accord- 
ing to his promise, the one King, the 
Christ, and all things in common, as 
in the day of the first church, when 
Christ Jesus was King. 

First. If ever I heard a madman, — 

let's away ! 
Why, you long-winded — Sir, you go 

'- beyond me. 
I pride myself on being moderate. 
Good-night ! Go home I Besides, you 

curse so loud. 
The watch will hear you. Get you 

home at once. \Exeiint. 



SCENE v.— LONDON. A ROOM 
LN THE^ALACE. 

A Gallery en one side. The moon light 
streaming through a range of loindows 
on the wall opposite. Mary, Lady 
Clarence, Lady Magdalen Da- 
CRES, Alice. Queen pacirig the 
Gallery. A writing-table in front. 
Queen comes to the table and writes 
and goes agai7i, pacing the Gallery. 

Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim : 

what hath she written ? read. 
Alice. " I am dying, Philip ; come to 

me.' 
Lady Magdalen. There — up and 

down, poor lady, up and down. 
Alice. And how her shadow crosses 
one by one 
The moonlight casements pattern 'd on 

the wall, 
Following her like her sorrow She 
turns again. \aga.in. 

[Queen sits and writes^ and goes 
Lady Clarence. What hath she writ- 
ten Ufnv .'* 
Alice. Nothing: but ''come, come, 
come," and all awry. 
And blotted by her tears. This can- 
not last. [Queen returm. 
Mary. I whistle to the bird has bro- 
ken cage. 
And all in vain. [Sitting down, 
Calais gone — ^^Guisncs gone, too — and 
Philip gone ! 
Lady Clarence. Dear Madam, Philip 
is but at the wars ; 
I cannot doubt but that he comes 

again ; 
And he is with you in a measure still. 
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness 
As your great King in armor there, his 

hand 
Upon his helmet. 

{Pointing to the portrait <?/" PHILIP 

on the wall. 

Mary. Doth he not look noble .' 

I had heard of him in battle over seas. 

And I would have my warrior all in 

arras. 



6l2 



QUEEN MARY. 



He said it was not courtly to stand 

helmeted 
Before the Queen. He hid his gra- 
cious moment 
Altho' you'll not believe Xi~z. How he 

smiles 
As if he loved me yet ! 

Lady Clarence. ^ And so he does, j 
Mary. He never love d mc— nay, he I 

could not love me. " \ 

It was his father's policy against 

P'rance. 
I am eleven years older than he, 
Poor boyo [ Weeps. 

Alice. That was a 1 isty boy of twen- 
ty-seven ; {Aside. 
Poor enough in God';- grace ! 

Mary. - -And all in vain ! 

The Queen of Scots is married to the 

Dauphin, 
And Charles, the lo. d of this low world, 

is gone ; 
And all his wars and wisdoms past 

away ; 
And in a moment I shall follow him. 
Lady Clareiic. Nay, dearest Lady, 

see your good physician, 
Mary. Drugs -but he knows they 

cannot help me — says 
That rest is all — tells me I must not 

think- 
That I must re^t — I shall rest by and 

by. 
Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when 

he springs 
And maims himself against the bars, 

say " rest ; " 
Why, you must kill him if you would 

have him rest — 
Dead or alive you cannot make him 

happy. 
Lady Clarence. Your Majesty has 

lived so pure a life. 
And done sue h mighty things by Holy 

Church, 
I trust that God will make you happy 

yet. 
Mary. Wh it is the strange thing 

happiness ? Sit down here ; 
Tell me thine happiest hour. 

Lady Clara.'ce. I will, if that 



May make your Grace forget youraell 

a little. 
There runs a shallow brook across ouj 

field 
For twenty miles, where the blach 

crow flies five, 
And doth so bound and babble all the 

way ' 

As if itself were happy. It was May-' 

time. 
And I was walking with the man 1 

loved. 
I loved him, but I thought I was iv, 

loved. 
And both were silent, letting the wih. 

brook 
Speak for us — till he stoop'd anc' 

gather'd one [nots 

From out a bed of thick forget-me 
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave- 

it me, 
I took it, the' I did not know I took 

it. 
And put it in my bosom, and all ai 

once 
I felt his arm.s about me, and his lips— 
Mary. O God ! I have been too 

slack ; 
There are Hot Gospellers even among 

our guards — 
Nobles we dared not touch. We have 

but burnt 
The heretic priest, workmen, anc 

women and children. 
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck 

wrath, — 
We have so play'd the coward ; but b} 

God's grace, 
We'll follow Philip's leading, and sei 

up 
The Holy Office here — garner the 

wheat. 
And burn the tares with unquenchable 

fire ! 
Burn ! — 
Fie, what a savor ! tell the cooks tOi 

close 
The doors of all the offices below. 
Latimer ! 
Sir, we are private with our women 

here — 



QUEEN MARY. 



613 



Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fel- 
low — 
Thou light a torch that never will go 

out ! 
'Tis out — mine flames. Wom.en, the 

Holy Father 
Has ta'eu the legateship from our 

cousin Pole — 
Was that well done ? and poor Pole 

pines of it, 
As I do, to the death. I am but a 

woman, 
I have no power. — Ah, weak and meek 

old man. 
Sevenfold dishonor'd even in the sight 
Of thine own sectaries — No, no. No 

pardon ! — 
Why that was false : there is the right 

hand still 
Beckons me hence. 
Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for 

treason. 
Remember that! 'twas I and Bonner 

did it, 
And Pole ; we are three to one — Have 

you found mercy there, 
Grant it me here : and see, he smiles 

and goes. 
Gentle as in life. 

Alice. Madam, vv'ho goes ? King 

Philip ? 
Mary. No, Philip comes and goes, 

but never goes. 
"Women, when J am dead, 
Open my heart, and there you will find 

written 
Two names, Philip and Calais; open 

his, — 
So that he ' ave one, — 
You will find Philip only, policy, pol- 
icy, — • 
Ay, worse than that — not one hour true 

to me ! 
Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd 

vice ! 
Adulterous to the very heart of Hell. 
Hast thou a knife ? 
Alice. Ay, Madam, but o' God's 

mercv — 
Mary. Fool, think'st thou I would 

peril mine own soul 



By slaughter of the body ? I could 

not, girl. 
Not this way — callous with a constant 

stripe, 
Unwoundable. Thy knife ! 

Alice. Take heed, take heed ! 

The blade is keen as death. 

Mary. This Philip shall not 

Stare in upon me in my haggardness ; 
Old, miserable, diseased. 
Incapable of children. Come thou 

down. 

\Ctits out the picture and throws it 
down. 
Lie there. {Wails.) O God, I have 

killed my Philip. 
Alice. No, 

Madam, you have but cut the canvas 

out, 
We can replace it. • 

Mary. All is well then ; rest — 

I will to rest; he said I must have 

rest. 

\Crics of " Elizabeth " in the 
street. 
Aery! What's that ? Elizabeth.? re- 
volt? 
A new Northumberland, another 

Wyatt } 
I'll fight it on the threshold of the 

grave. 
Lady Clarence. ISIadam, your royal 

sister comes to see you. 
Mary. I will not see her. 
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be 

my sister .? 
I will see none except the priest. Your 

arm. [7i? Lady Clarence. 

O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet 

worn smile 
Among. thy patient wrinkles — Help me 

hence! \_Exeunt. 

The Priest passes. Enter Elizabeth 
and Sir William Cecil. 

Elizabeth. Good counsel yours — 

No one in waiting.? still, 
As if the chamberlain were Death 

himself ! 
The room she sleeps in— is not this th« 
way .? 



6i4 



QUEEN MARY. 



No, that way there are voices. Am 1 

too late ? 
Cecil . . . Clod guide me lest I lose 

the way. \Kxit lu,i/.Ai5E'rn. 

Cecil. Many points weather 'd, many 

peiilous ones, 
\\. last a harbor opens ; hut therein 
Sunk rocks — they need line steering — 

much it is 
To be nor mad, nor bigot — have a 

mind — 
Not let Priests' talk, or dream of 

worlds to be, 
Miscolor things about her — sudden 

touches 
I'or him, or him — sunk rocks; no i)as- 

sionale faith — 
I'.ut — if let be — balance and compro- 
mise; • 
IJrave, wary, sane to the heart of her — 

a Tudor 
School'd by the shadow of death — a 

• lioleyn, too, 
Cilancing across the Tudor — not so 

well. 

Enter Ai.iCK. 

How is the good Queen now t 

Alice. Away from Philip. 

Back in her chiUlhood — prattling to 

her mother 
Of her betrothal to the I''mi)eror 

(Miarlcs, 
And chikllike-jcah^ns of him again — 

and once 
She thaidc'd her father sweetly for his 

book 
Against th;it godless German. Ah, 

those days 
Were happy. ll was never merry 

world 
In England, since the Bible came 

among us. 
Cecil. And who says thai ? 
Alice. It is a saying among the 

Catholics. 
Cecil. It never will be merry world 

in England 



'I'ill all men have their Bible, rich and 
poor. 
Alice. The Queen is dying, or yon 
dare not say it. 

Enter Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth. The Queen is dead. 
Cecil. Then here she stands ! my 

homage. 
Elizabeth. She knew me, and ac- 
knowledged me her heir, 

Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep 
the l''ailh ; 

Then clas])t the cross, and pass'd away 
in ])eace. 

I left her lying still and beautiful, 

More beautiful than in life. Why 
would you ve.\ yourself. 

Poor sister ? Sir, 1 swear I have no 
heart 

To be your Queen. To reign is rest- 
less fence, 

Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is 
with the dead. 

Iler life was winter, for her Spring was 
nipt : 

And she loved much; pray God she be 
forgiven. 
Cecil. Peace with the dead, who 
never were at peace ! 

Vet she loved one so much — I needs 
must sav — 

That never luiglish monarch dying left 

l"'ngland so little. 
Elizabeth. But with Cecil's aiil 

And otheis, if our person be secured 

l'"rom traitor stabs — we will make Eng- 
land great. 

Enter Pacrt and other Lords OF Tin 
Coi'NClL, SiK Rai.i'H Bagkn'hali., 
etc. 

Lords. God save Elizabeth, tlu- 

Queen of England ! 
Bai^enhall. God save the Crown : 

the Papacy is no more. 
Pa^:^et {aside). Are we so sure of that > 
Acclamation. God save the Queen ! 



HAROLD 



To His Excellency 
THE RIGHT HON. LORD LVTTON, 

VICEROY AND GOVERNORGKNERAL OK INUIA. 

Mv PEAK LoKi) Lytton,— After old-world rerorrls,— such as the P.ayeux t.iix-stiy and tlio 
Roman dc Ron,— Edward Freeman's History of tlit- Norman Conquest, and your fatiier's His- 
torical Romance treating of the same times, have been mainly helpful to me in writing tins 
Drima Your father dedicated his " Harold" lo niv father's brother ; allow mc to dedicate uiy 
" Harold" to yourself. A. Tennyson. 

SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE AllBEY, 1876. 

A GARDEN here— May breath and bloom of Spring— 
The cuckoo yonder from an Enghsli elm 
Crying " with my false ctig I overwhelm 
The native nest : " and fancy hears the ring 
Of harness, and that deathful arrow sing, 
And Saxon battle-axe clang on Norman helm. 
Here rose the dragon-banner of our realm : 
Here fought, here fell, our Norman- slander' d king. 
O Garden blossoming out of English blood! 
O strange hate-healer Time I We stroll and stare 
Where niight made right eight hundred years ago ; 
Might, right? ay good, so all things make for good— 
But he and he, if soul be soul, are where 
Each stands full face with all he did l>elow. 

DRAMATIS PERSON.^.- 

King Edward THE Confessor. , ,-. . n j a 

Stigand {created a rchl,isho/> 0/ Canterbury by the A,iti/>o/'e h,-u,ut,. n. 
k\.XiV.u\~i{Archbishof' 0/ York). 
The Norman I51SHOI' OF London. 

Harold, Karl of U'esKex, afterwards A tug oj I:>i,^land \ 
"Xo^-vxc, h'.arl 0/ Norilnnnbria \ y ,- 1 ■ \ 

GURTH, Earl 0/ East A nglia \ ^^^ns oJ GoJw.n). 

Leofwin, Eari 0/ Kent and Essex 
wulfnotii 

Count William of Normandy. 
William Rufus. 

William Mai.et*(« Norvian Noble). 
ILiiWitiy Earl 0/ Afercia 

MoRCAR, Earl of Northuwbria after '!ot~ti^\ 
Ga.mel {a Northumbrian Thane). 
G u y ( Count of Ponth ieu). 
Rolf Ka Fonthieu Fishervtan). 
Hugh NL\kc.ot {a Norman j\fonlc). 

Of>cor> and Arunu'iC {Canons from II a^tl/ain). r^j •\ 

The Queen {Edivard the Confessor s H ife, l^Ji'^.^ht.r of Godwin). 
Aldwyth {DanichterofA/fgar and H idow of Urijffyih, King of VV ales). 
Edith {Ward of King Edward). 
Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, Men-at-Arms , Canons of U'altham, Fishermen, etc. 
* Compater Heraldi, quidam partim Normannus et Anglus.— G/O- of Amiens. 



6i6 



HAROLD. 



ACT T. 

SCENE I.— LONDON. THE 
KING'S PALACE. 

{A comet seen through the open ■window. ) 

Aldwyth, Gamel, Courtiers 

{talking together). 
First Cotirtier. Lo ! there once more 
— this is the seventh night ! 
Yon grimly-glaring, treble-brandish'd 

scourge 
Of England ! 

Second Courtier. Horrible ! 
First Courtier. Look you, there's a 
star 
That dances in it as mad with agony ! 
Third Courtier. Ay, like a spirit in 
hell who skips and flies 
To right and left, and cannot scape the 
flame. 
Secojid Courtier. Steam'd upward 
from the undescendible 
Abysm 
First Courtier. Or floated downward 
from the throne 
Of God Almighty. 

Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means ? 

Gamel. War, my dear lady ! 

Aldxayth. Doth this affright thee ? 
Gamel. Mightily, my dear lady ! 

Aldwyth. Stand by me then, and 
look upon my face, 
Not on the comet. 

Rjiter MoRCAP. 

Brother ! why so pale ? 

Morcar. It glares in heaven, it flares 

upon the Thames, 

The people are as thick as bees below, 

They hum like bees, — they cannot 

Fpeak — for awe; 
Look to the skies, then to the river, 

strike 
Their hearts, and hold their babies up 

to it. 
I think that they would Molochize them 

too, 
To have the heavens clear. 
Aldwyth. They fright not me. 



Enter Leofwin, after him GURTH. 
Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he thinks 
of this ! 
Morcar. Lord Leofwin, dost thou be- 
lieve that these 
Three rods of blood-red fire up yonder 

means 
The doom of England and the wrath 
of Heaven "i 
Bishop of Lo7ido)i {passing). Did ye 
not cast with bestial violence 
Our holy Norman bishops down from 

all 
Their thrones in England.-* I alone 

remain. 
Why should not Heaven be wroth ? 
Leofwin. With us, or thee ? 

Bishop of London. Did ye not out- 
law your archbishop Robert, 
Robert of Jumieges — well-nigh murder 

him too .? 
Is there no reason for the wrath of 
Heaven .•* 
Leofwin. Why then the wrath of 
Heaven hath three tails, 
The devil only one. 

\_Exit Bishop of London. 

Enter Archbishop Stigand. 

Ask our Archbishop. 
Stigand should know the purposes of 
Heaven. 
Stigand. Not I. I cannot read the 
face of heaven. 
Perhaps our vines will grow the better 
for it. 
Leofwiji {laughing). He can but read 

the king's face on his coins. 
Stigand. Ay, ay, young lord, there the 

king's face is power. 
Gurth. O father, mock not at a pub- 
lic fear. 
But tell us, is this pendent hell in 

heaven 
A harm to England ? 

Stigand. Ask it of King Edward! 
And may he tell thee, /am a harm to 

England. 
Old uncanonical Stigand — ask of me 
Who had my pallium from an Anti- 
pope ! 



HAROLD. 



617 



Not he the man — for in our windy 

world 
What's up is faith, what's down is 

heresy. 
Our friends, the Normans, holp to 

shake his chair. 
I have a Norman fever on me, son, 
And cannot answer sanely. . . . What 

it means .•* 
Ask our broad Earl. 

[Pointing to HAROLD, zuho enters. 
Harold {seei7igG\MKL.). Hail, Gamel, 
son of Orm ! 
Albeit no rollmg stone, my good friend 

Gamel, 
Thou hast rounded since we met. Thy 

life at home 
Is easier than mine here. Look'! am 

I not 
Work-wan, flesh-fallen } 

Gatnel. Art thou sick, good Earl } 
Harold. Sick as an autumn swallow 
for a voyage. 
Sick for an idle week of hawk and 

hound 
Beyond the seas — a change ! When 
camest thou hither .'' 
Gatnel. To-day, good Earl. 
Harold. Is the North quiet, Gamel? 
Gamel. Nay, there be nmrmurs, for 
thy brother breaks us 
With over-taxing — quiet, ay, as yet — 
Nothing as yet. 

Harold. Stand by him, mine old 
friend, 
Thou art a great voice in Northumber- 
land ! 
Advise him : speak him sweetly, he 

will hear thee. 
He is passionate but honest. Stand 

thou by him ! 
More talk of this to morrow, if yon 

weird sign 
Not blast us in our dreams. — Well, 
father Stigand — 

[ To Stigand, 20/20 advances to /ii?n. 
Stigand {pointing to the comet). War 
there, my son } is that the doom of 
England? 
Harold. Why not the doom of all the 
world as well ? 



For all the world sees it as well as 

England. 
These meteors came and went before 

our day, 
Not harming any : it threatens us no 

more 
Than French or Norman. War ? the 

worst that follows 
Things that seem*jerk'd out of the 

common rut 
Of Nature is the hot religious fool, 
Who, seeing war in heaven, for heav- 
en's credit 
Makes it on earth: but look, where 

Edward draws 
A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tos- 

tig. 
He hath learnt to love our Tostig much 

of late. 
Leof7vin. And he hath learnt, despite 

the tiger in him. 
To sleek and supple himself to the 

king's hand. 
Garth. I trust the kingly touch that 

cures the evil 
May serve to charm the tiger out of 

him, 
Leofiuin. He hath as much of cat as 

tiger in him. 
Our Tostig loves the hand and not the 

man. 
Harold. Nay ! Better die than lie ? 

Enter KiNG, QuEEN and Tostig. 

Edward. In heaven signs ! 

Signs upon earth ! signs everywhere ! 

your Priests 
Gross, worldly, simoniacal, unlearn'd ! 
They scarce ' can read their Psalter ; 

and your churches 
Uncouth, unhandsome, while in Nor- 
man land 
God speaks thro' abler voices, as Hr 

dwells 
In statelier shrines. I say not this, as 

being 
Half Norman-blooded, nor, as some 

have held. 
Because I love the Norman better — no. 
But dreading God's revenge upon this 

realm 



6i8 



HARJLD. 



For narrowness and coldness : and I 

say it 
For the last time perchance, before I 

go 
To find the sweet refreshment of the 

Saints. 
I have lived a life of utter purity : 
I have builded the gr^t church of Holy 

Peter : 
I have wrought m.iracles — to God the 

glory— 
And miracles will in my name be 

wrought 
Hereafter. — I have fought the fight and 

go— 
I see the flashing of the gates of pearl — 
And it is well with me, tho' some of 

you 
Have scorn'd me — ay — but after I am 

gone 
Woe, woe to England! I have had a 

vision ; 
The seven sleepers in the cave at 

Ephesus 
Have turn'd from ri'3ht to left. 

Harold. My most dear Master, 

What matters? let them turn from left 

to right 
And sleep again. 

Tostig. Too hardy with thy king! 
A life of prayer and fasting well may 

see 
Deeper into the mysteries of heaven 
Than thou, good broti^er. 

Aldzuyth [aside). Sees he into thine. 
That thou wouldsthave his promise for 

the crown .'' 
Edmard. Tostig says true ; my son, 

thou art too hard. 
Not stagger'd by this ominous earth 

and heaven : 
But heaven and earth are threads of 

the same loom, 
Play into one another, and weave the 

web 
That may confound thee yet. 

Harold, Nay, I trust not, 

For I have served thee long and hon- 
estly. 
Edward. I know it, son ; I am not 

thankless : thou 



Hast broken all my foes, lighten'd for 

me 
The weight of this poor crown, and left 

me time 
And peace for prayer to gain a better 

one. 
Twelve years of service ! England 

loves thee for it. 
Thou art the man to rule her! 

Aldiijyth [aside). So, not Toetig ! 

Harold. And after those twelve 
years a boon, my king, 
Respite, a holiday ; thyself wast won-t 
To lovq the chase : thy leave to set my 

feet 
On board, and hunt and hawk beyond 
the seas ! 
Edtodrd. What, with this flaniir.g 

horror overhead .'' 
Harold. Well, when it passes then. 
Edzmrd. Ay, if it pass. 

Go not to Normandy — go not to Nor- 
mand}'. 
Harold. And wherefore not, my king, 
to Normandy t 
Is not my brother Wulfnoth hostage 

there 
For my dead father's loyalty to thee t 
I pray thee, let me hence and bring 
him home. 
Edzoard. Not thee, my son : some 

other niessenger. 
Harold. And why not me, my lord, 
to Normandy ? 
Is not the Norman Count thy friend 
and mine ? 
Edward. I pray thee, do not go to 

Normandy. 
Harold. Because my father drove 
the Normans out 
Of England i* — That was many a sum- 
mer gone — 
Forgotten and forgiven by them and 
thee. 
Edward. Flarold, I v.ill not yield 
thee leave to go. 
old. Why, thei 
will hav/k and hunt 
In Flanders. 
Edivard. Be thero not fair woods and 
fields 



HAROLD. 



619 



In England ? Wilful, wilful. Go— the 

Saints 
Pilot and prosper all thy wandering out 
And homeward. Tostig, I am faint 

again. 
Son Harold, I will in and pray for 
thee. 

'lExit, leaning on ToSTiG, and fol- 
lowed by Stigand, Mokcar,^;/^ 
Courtiers. 
Harold. What lies upon the mind of 
our good king 
"I'hat he should harp this way on Nor- 
mandy t 
Queen. Brother, the king is wiser 
than he seems ; 
And Tostig knows it ; Tostig loves the 
king. 
Harold. And love should know; and 
— be the king so wise, — 
Then Tostig too were wiser than he 

seems. 
I love the man but not his fantasies. 

Re-enter Tostig. 
Well, brother, 

When didst thou hear from thy North- 
umbria ? 
Tostig. When did I hear aught but 
this " When " from thee ? 
Leave me alone, brother, with my Nor- 

thumbria : 
She is 7?iy mistress, let nie look to her ! 
The king hath made me Earl ; make 

me not fool I 
Xor make the King a fool, who made 
me Earl ! 
Harold. No, Tostig— lest I make 
myself a fool 
Who made the King who made thee, 
make the Earl. 
Tostig. Why chafe me, then ? Thou 

knowest I soon go wild. 
Gurth. Come, come ! as yet thou 
art not gone so wild 
But thou cansfhear the best and wisest 
of us. 
Harold. So says old Gurth, not I ; 
yet hear ! thine earldom, 
Tost'ig, hath been a kingdom. Their 
old crown 



Is yet a force among them, a sun set 
But leaving light enough for Alfgar's 

house 
To strike thee down by — nay, this 

ghastly glare 
May heat their fancies. 

Tostig. ISIy most worthy brother. 

That art the quietest man in all the 

world — [war — 

Ay, ay, and wise in peace and great in 

Pray God the people choose thee for 

their king ! 
But all the powers of the house of 

Godwin 
Are not enframed in thee. 

Harold. . Thank the Saints, no ! 
But thou hast drain'd them shallow by 

thy tolls. 
And thou art ever here about the 

^ King : 
Thine absence well may seem a want 

of care. 
Cling to their love ; for, now the sons 

of Godwin 
Sit topmost in the field of England, 

envy. 
Like the rough bear beneath the tree, 

good brother, 
Waits till the man let go. 

Tostig. Good counsel, truly ! 

I heard from my Northumbria yester- 
day. 
Harold. How goes it then with thy 

Northumbria } Well .? 
Tostig. And wouldst thou that it 

went aught else than well ? 
Harold. I would it went as well as 
with m.ine earldom, 
Leofwin's and Gurth' s. 

Tostig. Ye govern milder men. 

Gurth We have made them .milder 

by just government. 
Tostig. Ay, ever give yourselves your 

own good word. 
Leofwin. An honest gift, by all the 
Saints, if giver 
A.nd taker be but honest ! but they 

bribe 
Each other, and so often, an honest 

world 
Will not believe them. 



620 



HAROLD. 



Harold. I may tell thee, Tostig, 

I heard from thy Northumberland to- 
day. 
Tostig. From spies of thine to spy 
my nakedness 
In my poor North ! 

Hai'old. There is a movement there, 
A blind one — nothing yet. 

Tostig. Crush it at once 

With all the power I have ! — I must — 

I will !— 
Crush it haU'-born ! Fool still ? or 

wisdom there, 
My wise head-shaking Harold ? 

Harold. Make not thou 

The nothing something. Wisdom 

when in power, 

And wisest, should not frown as Power, 

but smile \iiiitst 

As kindness, watching all, till the true 

Shall make her strike as Power : but 

when to strike — 
O Tostig, O dear brother— If they 

prance, . 
Reign in, not lash them, lest they rear 

and run 
And break both neck and axle, 

Tostig. Good again ! 

Good counsel tho' scarce needed. 

Pour not water 
In the full vessel running out at top 
To swamp the house. 

Leofwin. Nor thou be a wild thing 
Out of the waste, to turn and bite the 

hand 
Would help thee from the trap. 

Tostig. Thou playest in tune. 

Leo/win. To the deaf adder thee, 
that will not dance 
However wisely charm'd. 

Tostig. No more, no more I 

Giirt/i. I likewise cry "no more." 
Unwholesome talk 
For Godwin's house ! Leofwin, thou 

hast a tongue ! 
Tostig, thou lookst as thou wouldst 

spring upon him. 
St. Olaf, not while I am by ! Come, 

come, 
Join hands, let brethren, dwell in 
unity ; 



Let kith and kin stand close as our 

shield-wall, 
Who breaks us then ? I say, thou hast 

a tongue. 
And Tostig is not stout enough to 

bear it. 
Vex him not, Leofwin. 

Tostig. No, I am not vext, — 

Altho' ye seek to vex me, one and all. 
I have to make report of my good earl- 
dom 
To the good king who gave it — not to 

you — 
Not any of you. — I am not vext at all. 
Harold. The king.^ the king is ever 

at his prayers ; 
In all that handles matter of the state 
I am the king. 

Tostig. That shalt thou never be 
If I can thwart thee. 

Harold. Brother, brother ! 

Tostig. Away ! 

YExit Tostig. 
Qurcn. Spite of this grisly star ye 

three must gall 
Poor Tostig. 
Leofzvi7i. Tostig, sister, galls him- 
self, [nose 
He cannot smell a rose but pricks his 
Against the thorn, and rails against 

the rose. 
Queen. I am the only rose of all the 

stock 
That never thorn'd him ; Edward loves 

him, so 
Ye hate him. Harold always hated 

him. 
Why — how they fought when boys — 

and. Holy Mary ! 
How Llarold used to beat him ! 

Harold. Why, boys will fight. 

Leofwin would often fight me, and I 

beat him. 
Even old Gurth would fight. I had 

much ado 
To hold mine own against old Gurth. 

Old Gurth, 
We fought like great states for grave 

cause ; but Tostig — 
On a sudden — at a something — for a 

nothing-^ 



HAROLD. 



The boy would fist me hard, and when 

we fought 
I conqucr'd, and he loved me none the 

less, 
Till thou wouldst get him all apart, 

and tell him 
That where he was but worsted, he 

was wrong'd. 
Ah! thou hast taught the king to spoil 

him too ; 
Now the spoilt child swajs both. 

Take heed, take heed ; 
Thou art the Queen ; ye are boy and 

girl no more : 
Side not with Tostig in any violence, 
Lest thou be sideways guilty of the 
violence. 
Queen. Come fall not foul on me. 

I leave thee, brother. 
Harold. Nay, my good sister — 
\_Excitnt ' Queen. Harold, 
GuRTii, and Leofwin. 
Aldivyth, Game!, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means ? 

\Pointing to ihe comet. 
Gamel. War, my dear lady. 

War, waste, plague, famine, all malig- 
nities. 
Aldwyth. It means the fall of Tostig 

from his earldom, 
Gamel. That were too small a matter 

for a comet ! 
Ahhvyth. It means the lifting of the 

house of Alfgar. 
Gajiiel. Too small ! a comet would 

not show for that ! 
Aldwyth. Not small for thee, if thou 

canst compass it. 
Gamel. Thy love ? 

Aldwyth. As much as I can give 
thee, man ; 
This Tostig is, or like to be, a tyrant ; 
Stir up thy people : ou.st him! 

Gamel. And thy love? 

Aldwyth.- As much as thou canst 

bear. 
Gamel. I can bear all, 

And not be giddy. 
Aldwyth. No more now: to-morrow. 



SCENE n.— IN THE GARDEN. 
THE KING'S HOUSE NEAR 
LONDON. SUNSET. 

Edith. Mad for thy mate, passionate 
nightingale. . . . 

I love thee for it — ay, but stay a mo- 
ment : 

He can but stay a moment : he is go- 
ing. 

I fain would hear him coming ! . . . 
near me . . . near, 

Somewhere — to draw him nearer with 
a charm 

Like thine 'to thine. 

{Singing.) 

Love is ccrne with a song and a smile. 
Welcome Love with a smile and a song : 
Love can stay but a little while. 
Wiiy cannot he stay ? They call him. away : 
Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong ; 
Love will stay for a whole life long. 

Enter Harold. 

Harold. The nightingales at Haver- 
ing-in-the-bower 
Sang out their loves so loud, that Ed- 
ward's prayers 
Were deafen'd, and he pray'd them 

dumb, and thus 
I dumb thee, too, my wingless nightin- 
gale ! \J<:issivg^ her. 
Edith. Thou art my music ! Would 
their wing« were mine 
To follow thee to Flanders ! Must 
thou go ? 
Harold. Not must, but will. It is 

but for one moon. 
Edith. Leaving so many foes in Ed- 
ward's hall 
To league against thy weal. The Lady 

Aldwyth 
Was here to-day, andw^hen she touch'd 

on thee, 
She stammer'd in her hate ; I am sure 

she hates thee. 
Pants for thv blood. 

Harold. Well, I have given htr 
cause — 
I fear no woman. 
Edith. Hate not one who felt 



622 



HAROLD. 



Some pity for thy hater ! I am sure 
Her morning wanted sunlight, she so 

praised 
The convent and lone life — within the 

pale — 
Beyond the passion. Nay — she held 

with Edward, 
At least methought she held with holy 

Edward, 
That marriage was half sin. 

Harold. A lesson worth 

Finger and thumb — thus {snaps his fin- 
gers). And my answer to it — 
See here — an interwoven H and E ! 
Take thou this ring; I %viil demand 

his ward 
From Edward when I come again. 

Ay, would she ? 
She to shut up my blossom in the 

dark ! [arms. 

Thou art my nun, thy cloister in mine 

Edith [taking the ring).. Yea, but 

Earl Tostig — 
Harold. That's a truer fear ! 

For if the North take fire, I should be 

back ; 
I shall be, soon enough 

Edith. 
An evil dream that ever came and | 

went — I 

Harold A gnat that vext thy pillow ! | 

Had I been by j 

I would have spoil 'd his horn. My | 

girl, what was it ? I 

Edith. -Oh. \ that thou wert not go- . 

ing! 
F'or so methought it was our marriage- 
morn, 
And while we stood together, a dead \ 

man 
Rose from behind the altar, tore away ! 
My marriage ring, and rent my bridal j 

veil ; I 

And then I turn'd, and saw the church 

all fill'd I 

With dead men upright from their ; 

graves, and all I 

The dead men made at thee to murder 

thee, i 

But thou didst back thyself against a j 

pillar, 



And strike among them with thy bat- 
tle-axe — 
There, what a dream ! 
Harold. Well, well — a dream — no 

more ! 
Edith. Did not Heaven speak to 

men in dreams of old .'' 
Harold. Ay — well— of old. I tell 
thee what, my child ; 

Thou hast misread this merry dream 
of thine. 

Taken the rifted pillars of the wood 

For smooth stone columns of the 
sanctuary, 

The shadows of a hundred fat dead 
deer 

For dead men's ghosts. True, that 
the battle-axe 

Was out of place ; it should have been 
the bow. — 

Come, thou shalt dream no more such 
dreams ; I swear it. 

By mine own eyes — and these two sap- 
phires — these [all 

Twin rubies, that are amulets against 

The kisses of all kind of womankind 

In ?"landers, till the sea shall roll me 
back 

To tumble at thy feet. 

Edith. That would but shame me, 

Rather than make me vain. The sea 
may roll 

Sand, shingle, shore-weed, not the liv- 
ing rock 

Which guards the land. 
Harold. Except it be a soft one. 

And undereaten to the fall. Mine am 
ulet. . . . 

This last . . . upon thine eyelids, to 
shut in 

A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and 
thou shalt see 

Mv grevhounds fleeting like a beam of 

And hear my peregrine and her bells 

in heaven ; 
And other bells on earth, which yet 

are heaven's ; 
Guess what they be. 

Edith. He cannol guess who knows. 
Farewell, my king. 



HAROLD 



623 



Harold. Not yet, but then — my j By such a marrying? Courage, noble 
Queen. {Exrnnt, j Aldwyth ! 

i Let all thy people bless thee ' 



Our wild Tostig. 
Edward hath made him Earl : he would 

be king : — 
The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt 

the bone. — 



Enter AlX>\\\T\i/rom the thuket. 

A Id-ioj/t/i., The kiss that charms thine 

eyelids into sleep, 
Will hold mine waking. Hate him .^ 

I could love him _ i I trust he may do well, this Gamel, 

-More, tenfold, than this fearful child i whom 

can do ; ; I p]ay upon, that he may play the note 

C.riffyth I hated : why not hat-c the j Whereat the dog shall howl and rUn, 

foe i and Harold 

Of England? Griffyth when I saw Hear the king's music, all alone with 



him flee. 
Chased deer-like up his mountains, all 

the blood 
That should have only pulsed for 

Griffyth, beat 
For his pursuer, I love him or think 

I love him. 
If he were King of England, I his 

queen, 
T might be sure of it. Nay, I do love 

him. — 
She must be cloister'd somehow, lest 

the king 
Should yield his ward to Harold's will 

What harm ? 



him. 

Pronounced his heir of England. 
I see the goal and half the way to it. — 
Peace-lover is our Harold for the sake 
Of England's wholeness— so — to shake' 

the North 
With earthquake and disruption — some 

division — 
Then fling mine own fair person in the 

gap 
A sacrifice to Harold, a peace-offer- 
ing, [both 
A scape-goat marriage — all the sins of 
The houses on mine head — then a fair 
life 



She hath but blood enough to live, not And bless the Queen of England, 



love. 



When Harold goes and Tostig, shall I 

play ■ . . . 

The craftier Tostig with him? fawn 

upon him ? 
Chime in with all ? " O thou more 

saint than king 1 " 
And that were true enough. "O 

blessed relics ! " 
" <"> Holy Peter!" If he found me 

thus, 
Harold might hate me; he is broad 

and honest, 
]:-reathing an easy gladness . . . not 

like Aldwyth , . . 
For which I strangely love him. Should 

not England 
Love Aldwyth, if she stay the feuds 

that part 
The sons of Godwin from the sons of j 

A If gar 



Morcar {co7ning from the thicket). 

Art thou assured 

By this, that Harold loves but Edith ? 

Ald7vyth. Morcar ! 

Why creepst thou like a tim.orous 

beast of prey 
Out of the bush Vy- night ? 

Morcar. I foilow'd thee. 

Aldwyth, Follovv' my lead, and I will 

make thee earl. 
Morcar. What lead then ? 
Aldwyth. Thou shalt flash it secretly 
Among the good Northumbrian folk, 

that I— 
That Harold loves me — yea, and pres- 
ently 
That I and Harold are betroth'd — and 

last— 
j'erchance that Harold wrongs me ; 

tho' I would not 
That it should come to that. 



624 



HAROLD. 



Morcar. I will both flash 

And thunder for thee. 

Aldtvyth. I said " secretly ; " 

It is the flash that murders, the poor 

thunder 
Never harm'd head 

Morcar. But thunder may bring 
down 
That which the flash hath stricken. 

Aldiuyth. Down with Tostig ! 

That first of all.— And when doth Har- 
old go ? 
Morcar. To-morrow — first to Bos- 
ham, then to Flanders. 
Aldwyth. Not to come back till Tos- 
tig shall have shown 
And redden'd with his people's blood 

the teeth 
That shall be broken by us — yea, and 

thou 
Chair'd in his place. Good-night, and 

dream thyself 
Their chosen Earl. \_Exit Aldwyth. 
Morcar. Earl first, and after that 
Who knows I may not dream myself 
their Kin? ! 



ACT II. 

SCENE L — SEA-SHORE. PON- 

THIEU. NIGHT. 

Harold and his men, wrecked. 

Harold. Friends, in that last inhos- 
pitable plunge 

Our boat hath burst her ribs ; but ours 
are whole ; 

I have but bark'd my hands. 

Attendant. I dug mine into 

My old fast friend the shore, and cling- 
ing thus 

Felt the remorseless outdraught of the 
deep 

Haul like a great strong fellow at my 
legs, 

And then I rose and ran. The blast 
that came 

So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly — 



Put thou the comet and this blast to- 
gether — 
Harold. Put thou thyself and mother- 
wit together. 

Be not a fool ! 

Enter FISHERMEN zvith torches, Vlkk- 
o\.Vj going up to one of them, RoLF. 

Wicked sea-will-o'-the-wisp ! 
Wolf of the shore ! dog, with thy Ivirg 

lights 
Thou hast betray'd us on these rocks 
of thine ! 
Rolf. Ay, but thou liest as loud as 
the black herring-pond behind thee. 
We be fishermen ; I came to see after 
my nets. 
Harold. To drag us into them. 
Fishermen ? devils ! 
Who, while ye fish for men with your 

false fires, 
Let the great Devil fish for your own 
souls. 
Rolf. Nay then, we be liker the 
blessed Apostles ; they were fishers of 
men, Father Jean says. 

Harold. I had liefer that the fish had 
swallowed me. 
Like Jonah, than have known there 

were such devils. 
What's to be done ? 

[ZJ? his men — goes apart with them. 
Fisherman. Rolf, what fish did swal- 
low Jonah .'' 
Rolf A whale ! 

Fisherman. Then a whale to a whelk 
we have swallowed the King of Eng- 
land. I saw him over there. Look 
thee, Rolf, when I was down in the 
fever, she was down with the himger, 
and thou didst stand by her and give 
her thy crabs, and set her up again, 
till now, by the patient Saints, she's as 
crabb'd as ever. 

Rolf And ril give her my crabs 
again, when thou art down again. 



Fish 



I thank thee, Rolf. Run 



thou to Count Guy ; he is hard at 
hand. Tell him what hath crept into 
our creel, and he will fee thee as freely 
as he will wrench this outlander's ran- 



HAROLD. 



625 



som out of him — and why not? for 
what right had he to get himself 
vvreck'd on another man's land ? 

Rolf. Thou art the human-hearted- 
est, Christian-charitiest of all crab- 
catchers ! Share and share alike ! 

\Exit. 

Harold [to Fisherman). Fellow, 
dost thou catch crabs ? 

Fisherman. As few as I may in a 
wind, and less than I would in a calm. 
Ay! 

Harold. I have a mind that thou 
shalt catch no more. 



Fisherman. H( 



Harold. I have a mind to brain thee 
with mine axe. 

Fisherman. Ay, do, do, and our 
great Count-crab will make his nippers 
meet in thine heart ; he'll sweat it out 
of thee, he'll sweat it out of thee. 
Look, he's here ! He'll speak for 
himself 1 Hold thine own, if thou 
canst ! 

Enter GuY, Count of Ponthieu. 

Harold. Guy, Count of Ponthieu ! 
Guy. Harold, Earl of Wessex ! 

Harold. Thy villains -with their lying 

lights have wreck'd us ! 

Gtiy. Art thou not Earl of Wessex ? 

Harold. In mine earldom 

A man may hang gold bracelets on a 

bush, [back 

And leave them for a year, and coming 

Find them again. 

Guy. Thou art a mighty man 

In thine own earldom! 

Harold. Were such murderous liars 
In Wessex — if I caught them, they 

should hang 
Cliff-gibbeted for sea-marks ; our sea- 
mew 
Winging their only wail ! 

Guy. Ay, but my men 

Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed 

of God ;— 
What hinders me to hold with mine 
own men } 
Harold. The Christian manhood of 
the man who reigns ! 
40 



Guy. Ay, rave thy worst, but in our 
oubliettes 
Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale 
him hence ! 

\To one of his Attendants. 
Flv thou to W illiam ; tell him we have 
Harold. 

SCENE II.— BAYEUX PALACE. 

Count William ^//^^ William Ma- 
let. 
William. We hold our Saxon wood- 
cock in the springe, 
But he begins to flutter. As I think 
Pie was thine host in England when I 

went 
To visit Edward. 

Malet. .Yea, and there, my lord, 

To make allowance for their rougher 

fashions, 
I found him all a noble host should 

be. 
William. Thou art his friend : thou 

knowest my claim on England 
Thro' Edward's promise; we have 

him in the toils. 
And it were well, if thou shouldst let 

him feel, 
How dense a fold of danger nets him 

round, 
So that he bristle himself against my 

will. 
lilalef. What would I do, my lord, if 

I were you ? 
William. What wouldst thou do ? 
Malet. My lord, he is thy guest. 

William. Nay, by the splendor of 

God, no guest of mine. 
He came not to see me, had passed me 

by 
To hunt and hawk elsewhere, save for 

the fate 
Which hunted hitn when that un- 

Saxon blast, 
And bolts of thunder moulded in high 

heaven 
To serve the Norman purpose, drave 

and crack'd 
His boat on Ponthieu beach; where 

our friend Guy 



626 



HAROLD. 



Had wrung his ransom from him by 
the rack, 

But that I stept between and pur- 
chased him, 

Translating his captivity from Guy 

To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where 
he sits 

Mv ransom'd prisoner. 

Malet. Well, if not with gold. 

With golden deeds and iron strokes 
that brought 

Th.y war with Brittany to a goodlier 
close 

Than else had been, he paid his ran- 
som back. 
William. So that henceforth they 
are not like to league 

With Harold against mc. 
Malet. A marvel, how 

ITe from the liquid sands of Coesnon 

Haled thy shore-swallow'd, armor'd 
Normans up 

To fight for thee again ! 

IVilliam. Perchance against 

Their saver, save thou save him fro,m 
himself. 
Malet. But I should let him home 

again, my lord. 
IVilliam. Simple ! let fly the bird 
within the hand. 

To catch the bird again within the 
bush ! 

No. 

Smooth thou my way, bt:fore he clash 
with me ; 

I want his voice in England for the 
crown, 

I want thy voice with him to bring 
him round ; 

Arid being brave he must be subtly 
cow'd. 

And being truthful wrought upon to 
swear 

Vows that he dare not break. Eng- 
land our own 

Thro' Harold's help, he shall be my 
dear friend 

As well as thine, and thou thyself 
shalt have 

Large lordship there of lands and ter- 
ritory. 



Malet I knew thy purpose ; he and 
W^ulfnoth never 
Have met, except in public ; shall 

they meet 
In private .'' I have often talk'd with 

Wulfnoth, 
And stuff'd the boy with fears that 

these may act 
On Harold when they meet. 

William. Then let them meet ! 

Malet. I can but love this noble, 

honest Harold. 
William. Love him ! why not } thine 
is a loving office. 
I have commission'd thee to save the 

man ; 
Help the good ship, showing the 

sunken rock, 
Or he is wr.eckt forever. 

Enter W^ILLIAM RuFUS. 
IVilliam Riifus. Father. 
William. Well, boy. 

William Rjifiis. They have taken 
away the toy thou gavest me, 
The Norman knight. 

William. W^hy, boy.> 

William Riifus. Because I broke 
The horse's leg— it was mine own to 

break ; 
I like to have my toys, and break them 
too. 
William. W^ell, thou shalt have an- 
other Norman knight ! 
William Rufus. And may I break 

his legs t 
William. Yea, — get thee gone ! 

William Rufiis. I'll tell them I have 
had my way with thee. {Exit. 

Malet. I never knew thee check thy 
will for aught 
Save for the prattling of thy little 
ones. 
William. Vvho shall be kings of 
England. I am heir 
Of England by the promise of her 
king. 
Malet. But there the great Assembly 
choose their king, 
The choice of England is the voice of 
England. 



HAROLD. 



627 



V/illiam. I will be king of England 
by the laws, 
The choice, and voice of England. 
Mulct. Can that be ? 

Wiliiavi. The voice of any people is 
the sword 
That guards them, or the sword that 

beats them down. 
Here comes the would-be what I will 

be . . . kinglike . . . 
Tho' scarce at ease ; for, save oar 

meshes break, 
More kinglike he than like to prove a 
king. 

E)iter ILvROLD, viitslng, tvith his eyes 
on the ground. 

He sees me not — and yet he dreams of 

me. 
Earl, wilt thou flv my falcons this fair 

day ? ' 

They are of the best, strong-wing'd 

against the wind. 
Harold [looking up suddenly^ having 

caught but the last ivord). Which 

way does it blow } 
IVilUam. Blowing for England, ha? 
Not yet. Thou hast not learnt thy 

quarters here, 
The winds so cross and jostle among 

these towers. 
Harold. Count of the Normans, thou 

hast ransom'd us, 
Maintain'd, and entertain'd us royally ! 
William. And thou for us hast 

fought as loyally. 
Which binds us friendship-fast for- 
ever ! 
Harold. Good I 
But lest we turn the scale of courtesy 
By too much pressure on it, I would 

fain. 
Since thou hast promised Wulfnoth 

home with us, 
Be home again with Wulfnoth. 

IVilliani. Stay — as yet 

Tliou hast but seen how Norman hands 

can strike, 
But walk'd our Norman field, scarce 

touch'd or tasted 
The splendors of our Court. 



Harold. I am in no mood : 

I should be as the shadow of a cloud 

Crossing your light. 

Willia7n. Nay, rest a week or two, 

And we will fill ^thee full of Norman 
sun, 

And_ send thee back among thine 
island mists 

With laughter. 

Harold. Coui-vt, I thank thee, but 
had rather 

Breathe the free wind from off our 
Saxon downs, 

Tho' charged with all the wet of all 
the west. 
William. Why if thou wilt, so let it 
be — thou shalt. 

That were a graceless hospitality 

To chain the free guest to the ban- 
quet-board ; 

To-morrow we will ride with thee to 
Harfleur, 

And see thee shipt, and pray in thy be- 
half 

For happier homeward winds than 
that ^vhich crack'd 

Thy bark at Ponthieu, — yet to us, in 
faith, 

A happy one — whereby we came to 
know 

Thy valor and thy value, noble earl. 

Ay, and perchance a happy one for 
thee, 

Provided — I will go with thee to-mor- 
row — 

Nay^but there be conditions, easy 
ones. 

So thou, fair friend, will take them 
easily. 

Enter Page. 
Page. ^ly lord, there is a post from 
over seas 
With news for thee. \Exit Page. 

William. Come, Malet, let us hear ! 
[Exeunt Count William and 
Malet. 
Harold. Conditions.-* What condi- 
tions ? Pay him back 
His ransom.? "easy" — that were 
easy — nay — 



628 



HAROLD. 



No money-lover he ! What said the 

King ? 
"I pray you do not go to Normandy." 
And fate hath blown me hither, bound 

me too 
With bitter obligation to the Count — 
Have I not fought it out ? what did 

he mean ? 
There lodgetl a gleaming grimness in 

his eyes, 
Gave his shorn smile the lie. The 

walls oppress me, 
And yon huge keep that hinders half 

the heaven. 
Free air! free field! 

^Miwes to go out. A Man-at- 

KKUZ folloiijs him. 

Harold [to the Man-at-ar?.is). I 

need thee not. Why dost thou 

follgw me .? 

Man-at-arvis. I have the Count's 

commands to follow thee. 
Harold. Wliat then.-* Am I in dan- 
ger in this court .'' 
Maii-at-anns. I cannot tell. I have 

the Count's commands. 
Harold. Stand out of earshot then, 
and keep me still 
\\\ eyeshot. 

Mati-at-anns Yea, lord Harold. 

[ Withdraws. 

Harold. And arm'd men 

Ever keep wati h beside my chamber 

door, 
And if I walk within the lonely wood, 
There is an arm'd man ever glides be- 
hind ; 

Enter Ma LET. 

W.hy am I follow'd, haunted, harass'd, 

watch' d ? 
See yonder ! 

\Poihtingto the Man-at-arms. 
I\Ialet. 'Tis the good Count's care 
for thee ! 
The Normans love thee not, nor thou 

the Normans, 
Or — so they deem. 

Harold. But wherefore is the wind. 
Which way soever the vane-arrow 
svvin.ii. 



Not ever fair for England t Why but 

now 
He said (thou heardst him) that I 

must not hence 
Save on conditions. 
Malet. So in truth he said. 

Harold. Malet, thy mother was an 
Englishwoman ; 
There somewhere beats an English 
pulse in thee ! 
Malet. Well — for my mother's sake 
I love your England, 
But for my father I love Normandy. 
Harold. Speak for thy mother's sake, 

and tell me true. 
Alalet. Then for my mother's sake, 
and England's sake 
That suffers in the daily want of thee, 
Obey the Count's conditions, my good 
friend. 
Harold. How, Malet, if they be not 

honorable ! 
Malet. Seem to obey them. 
Harold. Better die than lie ! 

Malet. Choose therefore whether 
thou wilt have thy conscience 
I White as a maiden's hand, or whether 
j England 

j Be shatter'd into fragments. 
j Harold. News from England .'' 

1 Malet. Morcar and Edwin have 
stirr'd up the Thanes 
Against thy brother Tostig's govern- 
ance ; (storm. 
And all the North of Humber is one 
Harold. I should be there, Malet, I 

should be there ! 
Malet. And Tostig in his own hall 
on suspicion 
Hath massacred the Thane that was 

his guest, 
Gamel, the son of Orm : and there be 

more 
As villanously slain. 

Harold. The wolf ! the beast ! 

Ill news for guests, ha, Malet ! More.!* 

What more ? 
What do they say ? did Edwaid know 
of this } 
Malet. They say, his wife was know- 
ing and abetting. 



HAROLD. 



629 



Harold. They say, his wife ! — To 
marry and have no husband 

Makes the wife fool. My God, I 
should be there. 

I'll hack my way to the sea. 
AFah't. Thou canst not, Harold ; 

Our Duke is all between thee and the 
sea, 

Our Duke is all about thee like a God ; 

All passes block'd. Obey him, speak 
him fair. 

For he is only debonair to those 

That follow where he leads, but stark 
as death 

To those that cross him. — Look thou, 
here is Wulfnoth ! 

J leave thee to thy talk with him alone ; 

How wan, poor lad ! how sick and sad 
for home ! \^Exit Malet. 

Harold {>?iuftering). Go not to Nor- 
mandy — go not to Normandy ! 

Enter WULFNOTH. 

Poor brother ! still a hostage ! 

Widfnoth. Yea, and I 

Shall see the dew)'- kiss of dawn no 

more 
Make blush the maiden-white of our 

tall cliffs, 
Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself 

and hover 
Above the windy ripple, and fill the 

sky 
\Yith free sea-laughter — never — save 

indeed 
Thou canst make yield this iron-mooded 

Duke 
To let me go. 

Harold. Why, brother, so he will ; 
But on conditions. Canst thou guess 

at them ? 
Widfnoth. Draw nearer, — I was in 

the corridor, 
I saw him coming with his brother Odo 
The Bayenx bishop, and I hid myself. 
Harold. They did thee wrong' who 

made thee hostage ; thou 
Wast ever fearful, 

Wtdfnoth. And he spoke — I heard 

him — 
•' This Harold is not of the roval blood, 



Can have no right to the ci own," and 

Odo said, 
" Thine is the right, for thine the 

might ; he is here. 
And yonder is thy keep." 

Harold. No, Wuifnoth, no. 

Wulfiwth. And William laugh'd and 
swore that might was 1 ight, 
Far as he knew in this poc r world of 

ours — 
"Marry, the Saints must go along with 

us. 
And, brother, we will find away," said 

he — 
Yea, yea, he would be king rf England. 
Harold. Never ! 

Wuifnoth. Yea, but thou must not 

this way answer him. 
Harold. Is it not better still to speak 

the truth ? 
Wuifnoth. Not here, or thou wilt 
never hence, nor I : 
For in the racing towards this golden 

goal 
He turns not right or left, but tramples 

flat 
Whatever thwarts him : hast thou 

never heard 
His savagery at Alen^on— the town 
Hung out raw hides aloag their walls, 

and cried, 
'* Work for the tanner." 

Harold. That h.\d anger' d me, 

Had I been William. 

Wuifnoth. Nay, but he had prisoners. 
He tore their eyes out, sliced their 

hands away, 
And flung them streaming o'er the 

battlements 
Upon the heads of those who walk'd 

within — 
O speak him fair, Haro'd, for thine 
own sake. 
Harold. Your Welshman savs, "The 
Truth against the World,'" 
Much more the truth against mvself 

Wuifnoth. Thyself ? 

But for my sake, oh brother ! oh ! for 
my sake ! 
Harold. Poor Wuifnoth! do they 
not entreat thee well ? 



630 



HAROLD. 



Wulfnoth. I see the blackness of my 
dungeon loom 

Across the!r lamps of revel, and be- 
yond 

The merriest murmurs of their banquet 
dank 

The shackles that will bind me to the 
wall. 
Harold. Too fearful still. 
Wtdfnoth. Oh no, no — speak him 
fair ! 

Call it to temporize ; and not to lie ; 

Harold, I do not counsel thee to lie. 

The man that hath to foil a murderous 
aim 

May. surely, play with words. 

Harold. Words are the man. 

Not ev'n for thy sake, brother, would I 
lie. 
Wulfnoth. Then for thine Edith ? 

. Harold. There thou prickst me deep. 
Wulf7ioth. And for our Mother Eng- 
land >. 
Harold. Deeper still. 

WulpwtJi. And deeper still the deep- 
down oubliette, 

Down thirty feet below the smiling 
N day — 

In blackness — dogs' food thrown upon 
thy head. 

And over thee the suns arise and set. 

And the lark sings, the sweet stars 
come and go, 

And men are at their markets, in their 
fields, 

And woo their loves and have forgot- 
ten thee ; 

And thou art upright in thy living grave. 

Where there is barely room to shift thy 
side, 

And all thine England hath forgotten 
thee ; 

And he our lazy-pious Norman King, 

With all his Normans round him once 
again, 

Counts his old beads, and hath forgot- 
ten thee. 
Harold. Thou art of my blood, and 
so methinks, my boy, 

Thy fears infect tne beyond reason. 
Peace ! 



Wulfnoth. And then our fiery Tos- 
tig, while thy hands 
Are palsied here, if his Northumbrians 

rise 
And hurl him from them, — I have 

heard the Normans 
Count upon this confusion — may he 

not make 
A league with William, so to bring him 
back ? 
Harold. "That lies within the shadow 

of the chance. 
Wulfnoth. And like a river in flood 
thro' a burst dam 
Descends the ruthless Norman — our 

good King 
Kneels mumbling some old bone — our 

helpless folk 
Are wash'd away, wailing, in their own 
blood — 
Harold. Wailing ! not warring ? 
Boy, thou hast forgotten . 
That thou art English. 

Wulfnoth. Then our modest 
women — 
I know the Norman license — thine own 
Edith— 
Harold. No more ! I will not hear 
! ' thee — William comes. 

Wulfnoth. I dare not well be seen 
in talk with thee. 
Make thou not mention that I spake 
with thee. 
\Morijes away to the back of the stage. 

Enter WiLUAM, Malet,^!;/^/ Officer. 

Officer. We have the man that rail'd 

against thy birth. 
William. Tear out his tongue. 
Officer. He shall not rail again ; 

He said that he should see confusion 

fall 
On thee and on thine house. 

William. Tear out his eyes, 

And plunge him into prison. 

Officer. It shall be done. 

\Exit Officer. 

William. Look not amazed, fair 

earl ! Better leave undone 

Than do by halves — tongueless and 

eyeless, prison'd — 



HAROLD. 



631 



Harold. Better methinks have slain 

the man at once ! 
William. We have respect for man's 
immortal soul, 
We seldom take man's life, except in 

^var ; 
It frights the traitor more to maim and 
blind. 
Harold. In mine own land I should 
have scorn'd the man, 
Or lash'd his rascal back, and let him 

go- 
William. And let him go ? To slan- 
der thee again! [day 
Tet in thine own land in thy father's 
They blinded my young kinsman, 

Alfred — ay, 
Some said it -\Yas thy lather's deed. 
Harold. They lied. 

William. But thou and he — whom at 
thy word, for thou 
Art known a speaker of the truth, I 

free 
From this foul charge — 

Harold. Nay, nay, he freed himself 
. By oath and compurgation from the 
charge. 
The king, the lords, the people clear'd 
him of it. 
William. But thou and he drove our 
good Normans out 
From England, and this rankles in us 

yet. 
Archbishop Robert hardly scaped with 
life. 
Harold. Archbishop Robert ! Rob- 
ert the Archbishop ! 
Robert of Jumieges, he that — 

Malet. Quiet ! quiet ! 

Harold. Count! if there sat within 
thy Norman chair 
A ruler all for England — one who 

fill'd 
All offices, .all bishoprics with Eng- 

lish- ^ 

We could not move from Dover to 

the 11 umber 
Saving thro' Norman bishoprics — I say 
Ye would applaud that Norman who 

should drive 
The stranger to the fiends I 



Willia?n. Why, that is reason ! 

Warrior thou art, and mighty wise 

withal ! 
Ay, ay, but many among our Norman 

lords 
Hate thee foj: this, and press upon me 

— saying 
God and the sea have given thee to 

our hands — 
To plunge thee into life-long prison 

here : — 
Yet I hold out against them, as I may, 
Yea — would hold out, yea, tho' they 

should revolt — 
For thou hast done the battle in my 

cause ; 
I am thy fastest friend in Normandy. 
Harold. I am doubly bound to thee 

... if this be so. 
Wtllia?ti. And I would bind thee 
more, and would myself 
Be bounden to thee more. 

Harold. Then let me hence 

With Wulfnoth to King Edward. 

William. So we will. 

We hear he hath not long to live. 
Harold. It mayVje. 

William. Why then the heir of Eng- 
land, who is he } 
Harold. The Atheling is nearest to 

the throne. 
William. But sickly, slight, half- 
witted and a child, 
Will England have him king ? 

Harold. It may be, no. 

William. And hath King Edward 

not pronounced his heir t 
Harold. Not that I know. 
William. When he was here in Nor- 
mandy, 
He loved us and we him, because we 

found him 
A Norman of the Normans. 

Harold. So did we. 

'William. A gentle, gracious, pure 
and saintly man ! 
And grateful to the hand that shielded 

him. 
He promised that if he ever were king 
In England, he would give his kingly 
voics 



632 



HAROLD. 



To me as his successor. Knowest 

thou this? 
Harold. I learn it now. 
Williani. Thou knowest I am his 

cousin [tied .^ 

And that my wife descends from Al- 
Harold. Ay. 
William. Who hath a better claim 

then to the crown 
So that ye will not crown the Athel- 

ing } 
Harold. None that I know ... if 

that but hung upon 
King Edward's will. 

IVilliam. Wilt tJioit- uphold my 

claim 1 
Malet [aside to Harold), Be careful 

of thine answer, my good friend. 
Widfnoth [aside to Harold). Oh ! 

Harold, for my sake and for thine 

own ! 
Harold. Ay ... if the king have 

not revoked his promise. 
Williajii. But hath hq done it then ? 
Harold. Not that I know. 

Williavi. Good, good, and thou wilt 
' help me to the crown. 
Harold. Ay ... if the Witan will 

consent to this. 
William. Thou art the mightiest 

voice in England, man, 
Thy voice will lead the Witan — shall 

I have it ? 
Wtdfnoth [aside to Harold). Oh! 

Harold, if thou love thine Edith, 

ay. 
Harold. Ay, if — 
Malet [aside to Harold). Thine 

"ifs " will sear thine eyes out — ay. 
William. I ask thee, wilt thou help 

me to the crown .-■ 
And I will make thee my great Earl of 

Earls, 
Foremost in England and in Nor- 
mandy ; 
'Thou shait be verily king— all but the 

name — 
For I shall most sojourn in Nor- 
mandy ; 
And thou be my vice-king in England. 

Speak, 



Widfnoth [aside to Harold). Ay 
brother — for the sake of England, 
— av. 
Harold. My lord— 
Mulct [aside to Harold). Take 

heed now. 
Harold. Ay. 

William. I am content, 

For thou art truthful, and thy word 

thy bond. 
To-morrow will we ride with thee to 
Harfleur. [^.r// William. 

Malet. Harold, I am thy friend, one 
life with thee, 
And even as I should bless thee, sav- 
ing mine, 
I thank thee now for having saved thy- 
self. \_Exit Malet. 
Harold. For having lost myself to 
save myself. 
Said "ay" when I meant "no," lied 

like a lad 
That dreads the pendent scourge, said 

" ay " for " no ! " 
Ay ! No ! — he hath not bound me by 

an oath — 
Is "ay" an oath? is "ay" strong as 

an oath "i 
Or is it the same sin to break my word 
As break mine oath ? He call'd my 

word my bond ! 
He is a liar who knows I arp a liar, 
And makes believe that he believes 

my word — 
The crime be on his head — not 
bounden — no. 

{Suddenly doors are flung open^ dis- 
coz^ering ill an inner hall Count 
William /;/ his state robes, seated 
upon his throne, between tioo 
bishops, Odo of Bayeux bettig 
one: in the centre of the hall an 
ark covered with cloth of gold ; 
ajid on either side of it the Nor- 
ma}i barons. 

Enter a Jailer before William's 
throne. 

William [to Jailer). Knave, hast 

thou let thy prisoner escape ? 
Jailer, Sir Count, 



HAROLD. 



633 



He had but one foot, he must have 

hopt away ; 
Yea, some familiar spirit must have 
help'd him. 
William. Woe knave to thy familiar 
and to thee ! 
Give me thy keys. [T/iey fall clashing. 
Nay, let them lie. Stand there and 
wait my will. 

[ The Jailer stands aside. 

IVilliain [to Harold). Hast thou 

such trustless jailers in thy North ? 

Harold. We have few prisoners in 

mine earldom there, 

So less chance for false keepers. 

William. We have heard 

Of thy just; mild, and equal govern- 
ance ; 
Honor to thee ! thou art perfect in all 

honor ! 

Thy naked w^rd thy bond! confirm it 

now [age, 

Before our gather'd Norman baron- 

For they will not believe thee — as I 

believe, 

\Descendsfrom his throne and stands 
by the ark. 
Let all men here bear witness of our 
bond ! 

[Beckons to Harold, who advances. 
Enter Malet behind him. 
Lay thou thy hand upon this golden 

pal* ! 
Behold the jewel of St. Pancratius 
Woven into the gold. Swear thou on 
this! 
Harold. What should I swear ? 

Why should I swear on this .'' 
William {savagely). Swear thou to 
help me to the crown of England. 
Malet {7uhisferi7ig Harold). My 
friend, thou hast gone too far to 
palter now. 
Widfnoth [whispering Harold). 
Swear thou to-day, tomorroA^ is 
thine own. 
Harold. I swear to help thee to the 
crown of England . . . 
According as King Edward promises. 
William. Thou must swear abso- 
lutely, noble Earl. 



Malet [zuhisfering). Delay is death 

to thee, ruin to England. 
Widfnoth {whispering). Swear, dear- 
est brother, I beseech thee, swear ! 
Harold {putting his hand on the Jewel). 
I swear to help thee to the crown, 
of England. 
William. Thanks, truthful Earl ; I 
did not doubt thy word, 
But that my barons might believe thy 

word. 
And that the Holy Saints of Nor- 
mandy 
When thou art home in England, with 

thme own, 
Might strengthen thee in keeping of 

thy word, 
I made thee swear, — Show him by 
whom he hath sworn. 
[77/^ two Bishops advance and 
raise the cloth of gold. The bod- 
ies and bones of Saints are seen 
lying in the ark. 
The holy bones of all the Canonized 
From all the holiest shrines in Nor- 
mandy ! 
Harold. Horrible ! 

[ They let the cloth fall again. 
William. Ay, for thou hast sworn 
an oath 
W^hich, if not kept, would make the 

hard earth rive 
To the very devil's horns, the bright 

sky cleave 
To the very feet of God, and send her 

hosts 
Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of 

plague 
Thro' all your cities, blast your infants, 

dash 
The torch of war among your standing 

corn, 
Dabble your hearths with your own 

blood. — Enough ! 
Thou wilt not break it I I, the Count 
— the King — 
! Thy friend — am grateful for thine hon- 
est oath. 
Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, 

now, 
But softly as a bridegroom to his own. 



034 



HAROLD. 



For I shall rule according to your 

laws, 
And make your ever-jarring Earldoms 

move 
To music and in order — Angle, Jute, 
■ Dane, Saxon, Norman, help to build a 

throne 
Out-towering hers of France. . . . 

The wind is fair 
For England now. . . . To-night we 

will be merry. 
To-morrow will I ride with thee to 

Harfleur. 

{ExeiiJii William and all f he N'or- 
man barons, etc. 
Harold. To-night we will be merry 

— and to-morrow — 
J uggler and bastard — bastard — he hates 

that most — 
William the tanner's bastard ! Would 

he heard me ! 

God, that I were in some wide, 

waste field 
With nothing but my battle-axe and 

him 
To spatter his brains ! Why let earth 

rive, gulf in 
'J'hese cursed Normans — yea, and mine 

own self. • 

Cleave heaven, and send thy saints 

that I may say 
Ev'n to their faces, " If ye side with 

William 
Ve are not noble." How their pointed 

fingers 
Cjlared at me ! Am I Harold, Harold 

son 
Of our great Godwin? Lo ! I touch 

mine arms, 
My limbs — they are not mine — they 

are a liars — 

1 mean to be a liar — I am not bound — 
Stigand shall give me absolution for 

it- 
Did the chest move ? did it move ? I 

am utter craven ! 
O Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou 

hast betray'd me ! 
IVtdfnoth. Forgive me, brother, I 

will live here and die. ! 



Enter Page. 

Page. My lord! the Duke awaits 
thee at the banquet. 
j Harold. Where they eat dead men's 
. flesh, and drink their blood. 
Page. My lord— 

Harold. I know your Norman cook^ 
ery is so spiced, 
It masks all this. 

Page. My lord ! thou art white as 

death. 
Harold. With looking on the dead. 
Am I so white ? 
Thy Duke will seem the darker. 
Hence, I follow. \_Exeiiiit. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I.— THE KING'S PAL- 
ACE. LONDON. 

King Edward ^//z^-^/^ a conch, and 
by him stajidaig the Qv'E.Y.'^, HAROLD, 
Archbishop Stigand, Gurth, 
Leofwin, Archbishop Aldred, 
Aldwyth, and Edith. 

Stigand. Sleeping or dying there } 

if this be death, 
Then our great Council wait t^ crown 

thee King — 
Come hither, I have a power : 

{to Harold. 
They call me near, for I am close to 

thee 
And England— I, old shrivell'd Sti- 
gand, I, 
Dry as an old wood-fungus on a dead 

tree, 
I have a power ! 

See here this little key about my neck ! 
ThQre lies a treasure buried down in 

Ely: 
If e'er the Norman grow too hard for 

thee, 
Ask me for this at thy most need, son 

Harold, 
At thy most need — not sooner. 
Harold. So I wall. 



HAROLD. 



(>3S 



Stigaiid. Red gold — a hundred 
purses, yea, and more! 

If thou canst make a wholesome use of 
these 

To chink against the Norman, I do 
believe 

My old crook'd spine would bud out 
tvv(; young wings 

To flv to' heaven straight with. 

Harold. Thank thee, father ! 

Thou art English, Edward too is Eng- 
lish now: 

He hath clean repented of his Norman- 
ism. 
Stigatid. Ay, as the libertine repents 
who cannot 

Make done undone, when thro' his 
dying sense 

Shrills " lost thro' thee." They have 
built their castles here ; 

Our prisoners are Norman; the Nor- 
man adder 

i.Iath bitten us ; we are poison'd : our 
dear England 

fs de mi -Norman. He ! — 
[Pointing to KiNG Edward sleeping. 
Harold. I would I were 

As holy and as passionless as he ! 

That I might rest as calmly : Look at 
him — 

The rosy face, and long down-silvering 
beard, 

The brows unwrinkled as a summer 
mere — 
Stigand. A summer mere with sud- 
den wreckful gusts 

From a side gorge. Passionless ? How 
he flamed 

When Tostig's anger'd earldom flung 
him, nay, 

He fain had calcined all Northumbria 

To one black ash, but that thy patriot 
passion 

Siding with our great Council against 
Tostig, 

Out-passion'd his ! Holy "i ay, ay, for- 
sooth, 

A conscience for his own soul, not his 
realm ; 

A twilight conscience lighted thro' a 
chink ; 



Thine by the sun ; nay, by some sun to 

be, 
When all the world hath learnt to speak 

the truth, 
And lying were self-murder by that 

state 
Which was the exception. 
Harold. That sun may God speed I 
Stigand. Come, Harold, shake the 

cloud off ! 
Harold. Can I, father ? 
Our Tostig parted cursing me and 

England ; 
Our sister hates us for his banishment; 
He hath gone to kindle Norway against 

England, 
And Wulfnoth is alone in Normandy. 
For when I rode with William down to 

Harfleur, 
" Wulfnoth is sick," he said ; *' he can- 
not follow ; " 
Then with that friendly-fiendly smile 

of his, 
" We have learnt to love him, let him 

a little longer 
Remain a hostage for the loyalty 
Of Godwin's house." As far as touches 

Wulfnoth, 
T that so prized plain word and naked 

truth 
Have sinn'd against it — all in vain. 

Leofiuin. Good brother, 

By all the truths that ever priest hath 

preach'd, 
Of all the lies that ever men have lied, 
Thine is the pardonablest. 

Harold. May be so I 

I think it so, I think I zxsx a fool 
To think it can be otherwise than so. 
Stigand. Tut, tut, I have absolved 

thee : dost thou scorn me, 
Because I had my Canterbury pallium 
From one whom they dispoped .'' 
Harold. ' No, Stigand, no ! 

Stigand. Is naked truth actable in 

true life ? 
I have heard a saying of thy father 

Godwin, 
That, were a man of state nakedly true, 
Men would but take him for the craftier 

liar. 



636 



HAROLD. 



Leofivin. Be men less delicate than 

the Devil himself ? 
I thought that naked Truth would 

shame the Devil, 
The Devil is so modest. 

Gin-lh. He never said it ! 

Leofwiu. Be thou not stupid-honest, 

brother Gurth ! 
Harold. Better to be a liar's dos;, and 

hold 
My master honest, than believe that 

lying 
And ruling men are fatal twins that 

cannot 
Move one without the other. Edward 

wakes ! — 
Dazed — he hath seen a vision.- 

Edward. The green tree ! 

Then a great Angel past along the 

highest. 
Crying, " the doom of England," and at 

once 
lie stood beside me, in his grasp a 

sword 
Of lightnings, wherewithal he cleft the 

tree 
From off the bearing trunk, and hurl'd 

it from him 
Three fields away, and then he dash'd 

and drench'd, 
He dyed, he soak'd the trunk with 

human blood. 
And brought the sunder'd tree again, 

and set it 
Straight on the trunk, that thus bap- 
tized in blood 
Grew ever high and higher, beyond my 

seeing, 
And shot out sidelong boughs across 

the deep 
That dropt themselves, and rooted in 

far isles 
Beyond my seeing : and the great 

Angel rose 
And past again along the highest, cry- 
ing, 
"The doom of England," — Tostig, 

raise my head ! \Falls back senseless. 
Harold {raishig him). Let Harold 

serve for Tostig ! 
Queen. Harold served 



Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tostig! 
Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid it 

low ! 
The sickness of c ur saintly king, for 

whom 
My pravers go up as fast as mv tears 

falK 
I well believe, hath mainly drawn itself 
From lack of Tostig — thou hast ban- 
ish'd him. 
Harold. Nay— but the Council, and 

the king himself ! 
Queen. Thou hatest him, hatest him. 
Harold [coldly). Ay — Stigand, un- 
riddle 
This vision, canst thou 1 

Stigand. Dotage ! 

Ediuard [starting itf). It is finish'd. 
I have built the Lord a house — the 

Lord hath dwelt 
In darkness. I have built the Lord a 

house — 

Palms, flowers, pomegranates, golden 

cherubim [wall — 

With twenty-cubit wings from wall to 

I have built the 1 .ord a house — sing, 

Asaph ! clash 
The cymbal, Heman ! blow the trum- 
pet, priest ! 
Fall, cloud, and fill the house — lo ! my 

two pillars, 
Jachin and Boaz ! — 

^Seeing Harold «;/^ Gurth. 
Harold, Guith, — where am I .'' 
Where is the charter of our Westmin- 
ster ? 
Stigand. It lies beside thee, king, 

upon thy bed. 
Edward'. Sign, sig:i at once — take, 
sign it, Stigand, Aldred ! 
Sign it, my good sou Harold, Gurth 

and Leofwin, 
Sign it, my queen ! 
All. ' VN'e have sign'd it. 

Ed7vard. It is finish'd ! 

The kinglicst Abbey in all Christian 

lands, 
The lordliest, loftliest minster ever built 
To Holy Peter in our English isle ! 
Let me be buried there, and all our 
kings, 



HAROLD. 



637 



And all our just and wise and holy men 
That shall be born hereafter. It is 

finish'd ! 
Hast thou had absolution for thine 
oath? \To Harold. 

Harold. Stigand hath given me abso- 
lution for it. 
Eikvard Stigand is not canonical 
enough 
To save thee from the wrath of Norman 
Saints. 
Stigand. Norman enough ! Be there 
no Saints of England 
To help us from theii-fcn-ethren yonder ? 
Edward. Prelate, 

The Saints are one, but those of Nor- 

manland 

Are mightier than our own. Ask it of 

Aldred. [71? Harold. 

Aldrcd. It shall be granted him, my 

king ; for he 

Who vows a vow to strangle his own 

mother 
Is guiltier keeping this, than breaking it. 
Edward. O friends, I shall not over- 
live the day. 
Stigand. Why then the throne is 
empty. Who inherits .-' 
For tho' we be not bound by the king's 

voice 
In making of a king, yet the king's 

voice 
Is much toward his making. Who in- 
herits } 
Edgar the Atheling ? 

Edward. No, no, but Harold. 

I love him : he hath served me : none 

but he 
Can rule all England. Yet the curse 

is on him 
For swearing falsely by those blessed 

bones ; 
He did not mean to keep his vow. 

Harold. Not mean 

To make our England Norman. 

Ediuard. There spake Godwin, 

Who hated ail the Normans: but 

their Saints 
Have heard thee, Harold. 

Edith. Oh ! my lord, my king ! 

He knew not whom he sware bv. 



Edward. Yea, I know 

He knew not, but those heavenly ears 

have heard, 
Their curse is on him : wilt thou bring 

another, 
Edith, upon his head ? 
Edith. No, no, not I. 

Ediuard. W' hy then, thou must not 

wed him. 
Harold. Wherefore, wherefore ? 
Edward. O son, when thou didst tell 

me of thine oath, 
I sorrow'd for my random promise 

given 
To yon fox-lion. I did not dream then 
I should be king. — My son, the Saints 

are virgins; 
They love the white rose of virginity, 
The cold, white lily blowing in her 

cell: 
I have been myself a virgin ; and I 

sware 
To consecrate my virgin here to heav- 
en — 
The silent, cloister'd, solitary life, 
A life of life-long prayer against the 

curse 
That lies on thee and England. 

Harold. No, no, no. 

Ed7ua7 d. Treble denial of the tongue 

of fiesh, 
Like Peter's when he fell, and thou 

wilt have 
To wail for it like Peter. O my son ! 
Are all oaths to be broken then, all 

promises 
Made in our agony for help from heav- 
en ? 
Son, there is one who loves thee : and 

a wife, 
What matters who, so she be service- 
able 
In all obedience, as mine own hath 

been : 
God bless thee, wedded daughter. 

\_Laying his hand on the Queen's 
head. 
Queen. Bless thou too 

That brother v^^hom I love beyond the 

rest, 
My banish'd Tostig. 



638 



HAROLD. 



Edzoard. All the sweet Saints bless 
* him ! 
Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he 

comes ! 
And let him pass unscathed ; he loves 

me, Harold ! 
Be kindly to the Normans left among 

us, 
Who follovv'd me for love ! and dear 

son, swear, 
When thou art king, to see my solemn 

vow 
Accomplish'd ! 

Harold. Nay, dear lord, for I have 
sworn 
Not to swear falsely twice. 

Edward. 7'hou wilt not swear ? 

Harold. I cannot. 

Edward. Then on thee remains the 
curse, [thee, 

Harold, if thou embrace her ; and on 
Edith, if thou abide it, — 

\^The King j-ztvw/j; Edith /?//j- 
and kneels by the couch. 
Stigand. He hath swoon'd ! 

Death .''... no, as yet a breath. 

Harold. Look up ! look up ! 

Edith ! 

Aldred. Confuse her not ; she hath 
begun 
I [er life-long prayer for thee. 

Aldwyth. O noble Harold, 

I would thou couldst have sworn. 
Harold. For thine own pleasure ? 
Ahhvyth. No, but to please our dy- 
ing king, and ;h «e 
Who make thy good their own — all 
England, Earl. 
Aldred. I would thou couldst have 
sworn. Our holy king 
Hath given his virgin lamb to Holy 

Church 
To save thee from the curse. 

Harold. Alas ! poor man, 

His promise brought it on me. 

Aldred. O good son ! 

That knowledge made him all the 

carefuller 
To find a means whereby the curse 

might glance 
From thee and England. 



Harold. Father, we so loved — 

Aldred. The more the love, the 
mightier is the prayer ; 
The more the love, the more accept- 
able 
The sacrifice of both your loves to 

heaven. 
No sacrifice to heaven, no help from 

heaven ; 
That runs thro' all the faiths of all the 

world. 
And sacrifice there must be, for the 

king 
Is holy, and hath talk'd with God, and 

seen 
A shadowing horror; there are signs 
in heaven — 
Harold. Your cornet came and went. 
Aldred. And signs on earth ! 

Knowest thou Senlac hill.? 

Harold. I know all Sussex ; 

A good intrenchment for a perilous 

hour! 

Aldred. Pray God that come not 

suddenly ! There is one 

Who passing by that hill three nights 

ago— 
He shook so that he scarce could out 

with it- 
Heard, heard — 
Harold. The wind in his hair ? 

AJdred. A ghostly horn 

Blowing continually, and faint battle 

hymns, 
And cries, and clashes, and the groans 

of men ; 
And dreadful shadows strove upon the 

hill, 
And dreadful lights crept up from out 

the marsh — 
Corpse-candles gliding over nameless 
graves — 
Harold. At Senlac? 
Aldred. Senlac. 

Edzoard {zvaking). Senlac ! Sangue- 
lac. 
The Lake of Blood! 

Stigand. This lightning before death 
Plays on the word, — and Normanizes 
too! 
Harold. Hush, father, hush ! 



HAROLD. 



639 



Edward. Thou uncanonical fool, 
Wilt thoic play- with the thunder? 

North and South 
Thunder together, showers of blood 

are blown 
Before a never-ending blast, and hiss 
Against the blaze they cannot quench 

— a lake, 
A sea of blood — we are drown 'd in 

blood — for God 
Has fill'd the quiver, and Death has 

drawn the bow — 
Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! the arrow ! the 

arrow 1 \Dies. 

Stigand. It is the arrow of Death in 

his own heart — 
And our great Council wait to crown 

thee King. 

SCENE IT. — IN THE GARDEN. 
THE KING'S HOUSE NEAR 
LONDON. 

Edith. Crown'd, crov.'n'd and lost, 
crown'd King — and lost to me ! 



{Sine 



Two yourig lovers in winter weatiier, 

None to guide tliem, 
Walk'd at night on the misty heather ; 
Night, as black as a raven's feather; 
Both were lost and found together, 

None beside them. 

That is the burthen of it — lost and 

found 
Together in the cruel river Swale 
A hundred years ago; and there's 

another, 

Lost, lost, the ;ight of day. 
To which the lover answers lovingly, 

" I am beside thee." 
Lost, lost, we have lost the way. 

" Love, I will guide thee." 
Whither, O whither? into the river, 
Where we two may be lost together. 
'\nd lost forever? " Oli ! never, oh! never, 
Tho' we be lost and be found together." 

Some think they loved within the pale 

forbidden 
By Holy Church. ; but who shall say ? 

the truth 



Was lost in that fierce North, where 

they were lost, 
Where all good things are lost, where 

Tostig lost 
The good hearts of his people. It is 

Harold ! 

Enta- Harold. 

Harold, the King ! 
Naj'old. Call me not King, but Har- 
old. 
Edith. Nay, thou art King ! 
Harold. Thine, thine, or King or 
churl 1 
My girl, thou hast been weeping : turn 

not thou 
Thy face away, but rather let me be 
King of the moment to thee, and com- 
mand 
i That kiss my due when subject, which 
1 will make 

j My kingship kinglier to me than to 
1 reign 

I King of the world without it. 

Edith. Ask me not, 

Lest I should yield it, and the second 

curse 
Descend upon thine head, and thou be 

only 
King of the moment over England. 

Harold. Edith, 

Tho' somewhat less a king to my true 

self 
Than ere they crown'd me one, for I 

have lost 
Somewhat of upright stature thro' 

mine oath. 
Yet thee I would not lose, and sell not 

thou 
Our living passion for a dead man's 

dream ; 
Sligand believed he knew not what he 
spake. 
i Oh God ! I cannot help it, but at 
I times 

! They seem to me too narrow, all the 
I 'faiths 

I Of this grown world of ours, whose 
I baby eye 

j Saw them sufficient. P'ool and wise, I 
1 fear 



640 



HAROLD. 



This curse, and scorn it. But a little 

light !- 
And on it falls the shadow of the 

priest ; 
Heaven vield us more ! for better, 

Woden, all _ 
Our cancell'd warrior-gods, our grim 

Walhalla, 
Eternal war, than that the Saints at 

peace 
The Holiest of our Holiest one should 

be 
This William's fellow-tricksters ; — bet- 
ter die 
Than credit this, for death is death, or 

else 
Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me — 

thou art not 
A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear 
There might be more than brother in 

my kiss, 
And more than sister in thine own. 
Edith. I dare not. 

Harold. Scared by the church — 
"Love for a whole life long" 
When was that sung } 

Edith. Here to the nightingales. 

Harold. Their anthems of no church, 
how sweet they are ! 
Nor kingly priest, nor priestly king to 

cross 
Their billings ere they nest. 

Edith. They are l3ut of spring, 

They fly the winter change — not so 

with us — 
No wmgs to come and go. 

Harold. But wing'd souls flying 

Beyond all change, and in the eternal 

distance 
To settle on the Truth. 

Edith. They are not so true, 

They change their mates. 

Harold^ Do they } I did not know it. 
Edith. They say thou art to wed the 

Lady Aldwyth. 
Harold. They say, they say. 
Edith. If this be politic, 

And well for thee and England — and 

for her— 
Care not for me who love thee. 

Giirth {calhiig). Harold, Harold ! 



Harold. The voice of Gurth ! [Enter 
GuRTH.) Good even, my good 
brotlier ! 
Gurth. Good even, gentle Edith. 
Edith. Good even, Gurth. 

Gurth. Ill news hath come ! Our 
hapless brother, Tostig — 
He, and the giant King of Norway, 

Harold 
Ilardrada — Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, 

Orkney, 
Are landed North of Humber, and in 

a field 
So packt with carnage that the dikes 

and brooks 
Were biidged and damm'd with dead, 

have overthrown 
Morcar and Edwin. 

Harold. Well then, we must fight. 
How blows the wind ? 

Gurth. Against St. Valery 

And William. 

Harold. Well then, we will to the 

North. 

Gicrth. Ay, but worse news: this 

William sent to Rome, 

Swearing thou swarest falsely by his 

Saints : [brand 

The Pope and that Archdeacon Hilde- 

His master, heard him, and have sent 

him back 
A holy gonfanon, and a blessed hair 
Of Peter, and all France, all Bur- 
gundy, 
Poitou, all Christendom, is raised 

against thee r 
He hath cursed thee, and all those who 

light for thee, 
And given thy realm of England to the 
bastard. 
Harold. Ha! ha! 

Edith. Oh ! laugh not ! . . . Strange 
and ghastly in the gloom 
And shadowing of this double thunder- 
cloud 
That lovv'ers on England — laughter ! 

Harold. No, not strange ! 

This was old human laughter in old 

Rome 
Before a Pope was born, when that 
which reign'd 



HAROLD. 



641 



Call'd itself God. — A kindly rendering 
Of " Render unto Caesar." . . . The 

Good Shepherd ! 
Take this, and render that. 

Gurth. They have taken York. 

Harold. The Lord was God and 
came as man — the Pope 
Is man and comes as God. — York 
taken .' 
Gurth. Yea, 
Tostig hath taken York ! 

Harold. To York then. Edith, 

Hadst thou been braver, I had better 

braved 
All — but I love thee and thou me — 

and that 
Remains beyond all chances and all 

churches* 
And that thou knowest. 

Edith. Ay, but take back thy ring. 
It burns* my hand — a curse to thee and 

me. 
I dare not wear it. 

\Pr offers HAROLD the ring, luhich 

he takes. 

Harold. But I dare. God with thee ! 

^Exeunt HAROLD and GURTH 

Edith. The King hath cursed him if 

he marry me ; 

The Pope hath cursed him, niarry me 

or no ! 
God help me ! I know nothing — can 

but pray 
For Harold — pray, pray, pray — no 

help but prayer, 
A breath that fleets beyond this iron 

world, 
And touches Him that made it. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I.— IN NORTHUMBRIA. 

Archbishop Aldred, Morcar, Ed- 
win, and Forces. Enter HAROLD ; 
the standard of the goldeii Dragon of 
Wessex preceding him. 

Harold. What ! are thy people sul- 
len from defeat ? 

41 



Our Wessex dragon fiies beyond the 

H umber. 
No voice to greet it. 

Edwin. Let not our great king 

Believe us sullen — only shamed to the 

quick 
Before the king — as having been so 

bruised 
By Harold, king of Norvvay; but our 

help 
Is Harold, king of England. Pardon 

us, thou ! 
Our silence is our reverence for the 
king! 
Harold. Earl of the Mercians 1 if 
the truth be gall, 
Cram me not thou Avith honey. v,hen 

our good hive 
Needs every sting to save it. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Aldvvyth ! 

Harold. Why cry thy people on thy 

sister's name ? 
Alorcar. She hath won upon our 
people thro' her beauty. 
And pleasantness among them. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Aldwyth! 

H.rold. They shout as they would 

have her for a queen. 
Morcar. She hath followed with our 

host, and suffer'd all. 
Harold. What would ye, men ? 
Voice. Our old Northumbrian crown, 
A.nd kings of our own choosing. 

Harold. Your old crown 

Were little help without our Sa.\on 

carles 
Against Hardrada. 

Voice. Little ! we are Danes, 

Who conquer'd what we walk on, our 
own field. 
Harold. They have been plotting 
here ! \^Aside. 

Voice. He calls us little ! 
Harold. The kingdoms of this world 
began with little, 
A hill, a fort, a city — that reach'd a 

hand 
Down to the field beneath it, " Be 

thou mine," 
Then to the ne.xt. " Thou also "—if the 
field 



642 



HAROLD. 



Cried out " I am mine ovv'n, " another j For when your people banish'd Tostig 



hill, 



henc( 



Or fort, or city, took it, and the first j And Edward would have sent a host 



Fell, and the next became an Empire. 



Void 



against you. 



Yet Then I, who loved mv brother, bade 



Thou art but a West Saxon ; 7i>c arc 

Danes ! 
Harold. My mother is a Dane, and 

I am English; 
There is a pleasant fable in old Ijooks, 
Ye take a stick, and break it ; bind a 

score 
All in one fagot, snap it over knee 
Ye cannot. 



the kinr 

! Who doted on him, sanction your 
! decree 

Of Tostig's banishnient, and choice of 

jMorcar, 
To help the realm from scattering. 

Voice. King! thy brother, 

If one may dare to speak the truth, 
was wrona'd. 



Voice. Hear King Harold ! he says ! Wild was he, born so : but the plots 

against him 
Had madden'd tamer men. 

Morcar. Thou .^rt one of those 

W^ho brake into Lord Tostig's treas- 
ure-house 



true ! 

Harold. Would ye be Norsemen ? 
Voices. No ! 

Harold. Or Norman ? 

Voices. No 



Harold. Snap not th.e fagot-band And slew two bundled of Kis follow- 



then. 

Voice. That is true I 
V'oice. Ay, but thou art not kingly, 
only grandson 
To Wulfnoth, a poor cow-herd 



And now, when Tostig hath come 

back with powet,. 
Are frighted back to Tostig. 

Old Thane. Ugh ! Plots and feuds ! 



Harold. 



This old Wulfnoth j This is my ninetieth birthday. Can 



Would take me on his knees and tell 

me tales 
Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great 



ye not 
Be brethren ? Godwin still at feud 
with Alfgar, 



Who drove you Danes ; and yet he And Alfgar hates King Harold. Plos- 



held that Dane, 



[all 



and feuds ! 



Jute, Angle, Saxon, were or should be I This is mv ninetieth birthdav ! 



One England, for this cow-herd, like 

my father. 
Who shook the Norman scoundrels off 

the throne, 
Had in him kingly thoughts — a king 

of men. 
Not made but born, like the great 

King of all, 
A light among the oxen. 

Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ay, and I love him now, for 
mine own father 
Was great, and cobbled. 

Voice. 'J'hou art Tostig's brother, ' 
Who wastes the land. 
Harold. This brother comes to save 



Harold. Old man, Harold 

Hates nothing; not his fault, if oui 

two houses 
Be less than brothers. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Harold, Aldwyth ; 
Harold. Again ! Morcar ! .JjjlJiivin ! 

What do they mean ? 
Edwin. So the good king might 
deign to lend an ear 
Not overscornful, we might chance- 
perchance — 
To guess their meaning. 
\ Morcar. Thine own meaning. Har- 
old, 
To make all England one, to close all 
feuds. 



Your land from waste; I saved it once I Mixing our bloods, that thence a king 



before, 



may rise 



HAROLD. 



643 



ITalf-Godvvin and half-Alfgar, one to 

ruie [quarrel. 

All England beyond question, beyond 

Harold. Who sow'd this fancy here 

among the people ? 
Morcar. Who knows what sows it- 
self among the people ? 
A goodly flower at times. 

HarP'ld. The Queen of Wales? 

Why, Morcar, it is all but duty in her 
To hate me ; I have heard she hates 
me. 
Morcar. No. 
For I can swear to that, but cannot 

swear 
That these will follow thee against the 

Norsemen, 
If thou deny them this. 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, 

When will ye cease to plot against my 

house .-' 

Ed':<n!i. The king can scarcely dream 

that we, who know • 

His prowess in the mountains of the 

West, [North. 

Should care to plot against him in the 

Morcar. Who dares arraign us, 

king, of such a plot } 
Harold. Ye heard one witness even 

now. 
Morcar. The craven ! 
'ihere is a faction risen again for Tos- 

tig, 
Since Tostig came with Norway — 
fright not love. 
Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, 
if I yield, 
F*)!low against the Norsem.en ? 

Xv'cor. Surely, surely ! 

ifarold. Morcar and Edwin, will yc 
upon oath 
Help us against the Norman } 

Morcar. With good will ; 

Yea, take the Sacrament upon it, king. 
Harold. Where is thy sister } 
Morcar. Somewhere hard at hand, 
Call and she comes. 

lOnegoes out, then enter Aldwytm. 
Harold. I doubt not but thou know- 
est 
W^hv thou art summon'd 



Aldwyth. WHiy ? — I stay with these, 
Lest thy fierce Tostig spy me out 

alone. 
And flay me all alive. 
! Harold. Canst thou love one 

Who did discrown tliine husband, un- 
I queen thee ? 

Didst thou not love thine husband? 
i AUhvyth. Oh ! my lord, 

I The nimble, wild, red, wiry, savage 
I king- 

That was, my lord, a match of policv. 
I Harold. Was it ? 

! I knew him brave ; he loved his land : 
! he fain 

I Had made her great: his finger on her 
I harp 

j (I heard him more than once) had in 
it Whales, 
Her floods, her woods, her hills : had 

I been his, 
I had been all Welsh. 

Ahhoyth. Oh, av— all Welsh— and 
yet 
I saw thee drive him up his hills — and 

women 
Cling to the conqucr'd, if they love, 

the more ; 
If not, they cannot hate the conqueror. 
We never — oh ! good Morcar, speak 

for us, 
His conqueror conquered Aldwyth. 
Harold. Goodly news! 

Morcar. Doubt it not thou ! Since 
Griffyth's head was sent 
To Edward, she hath said it. 

Harold. I had rather 

She would have loved her husband. 

Aldwyth, xA.ldwyth, 
Canst thou love me, thou knowing 
where I love ? 
Ahhuyfh. I can, my lord, for mine 
own sake, for thine, 
Yox iingland, for thy poor white dove, 

V ho flutters 
Between thee and the porch, but then 

would find 
Her nest within the cloister, and be 
still. 
Harold. Canst thou love one, who 
can net : .- 2 again? 



644 



HAROLD. 



Ald-cvyth. Full hope have I that love 

will answer love. 
Harold. Then in the name of the 
great God, so be it ! 
Come, Aldred, join our hands before 

the hosts, 
Tliat all may see. 

[A \X)V.Y.Y) joins the /la /ids 0/ VI ARol.V 
mid Aldwyth, and blesses them. 
Voices. Harold, Harold and Ald- 
wyth ! 
Harold. Set forth our golden Dragon, 
let him flap 
The wings that beat down Wales ! 
Advance our Standard of the v.-airior, 
Dark among gems and gold ; and thou, 

brave banner, 
Blaze like a night of fatal stars on 

those 
Who read their doom and die. 
Where lie the Norsemen ? on the Der: 

went ? ay, 
At Stamford-bridge. 
Morcar, collect thy men ; Edwin, my 

friend — 
Thou lingerest. — Gurth, — 
l.ast night King Edward came to me 

in dreams — 
The rosy face and long down-silvering 

beard — 
He told me I shoiild conquer: — 
I am no woman to put faith in dreams. 

( To his army. ) 
l>ast night King Edward came to me 

in dreams. 
And told me we should conquer. 

Voices. Forward ! P'orward ! 

Harold and Holy Cross! 

Aldwyth. The day is won ! 

SCENE H.— A PLAIN. BEFQRE 
THE BATTLE OF STAM- 
FORD-BRIDGE. 

Harold and his Guard. 

Harold. Who is it comes this way ? 
Tostig t ( Enter ToSTiG ivith a 
small force. ) O brotlier. 
What art thou doing here } 

Tostig. I am foraging 

For Norway's army. 



Harold. I couM take and slay thee 
Thou art in arms against us. 

Tostig. Take and slay me. 

For Edward loved me. 

Harold. Edward bade me spare thee. 
Tostig. I hate King Edward, for he 
join'd with thee 
To drive me outlaw'd. Take and slay 

me, I say. 
Or I shall count thee fool. 

Harold. Take thee, or free thee, 

Free thee or slay thee, Norway will 

have war ; 
No man would strike with Tostig, save 

for Norway. 
Thou art nothing in thine England, 

save for Norway, 
Who loves not thee, but war. What 

dost thou here, 
Trampling thv mother's bosom into 
blood ? 
Tostig. She hath wean'd me from it 
wit^i such bitterness. 
I come for mine own Earldom, my 
Northumbria ; [house. 

Thou hast given it to the enemy of our 
Harold. Northumbria threw thee off, 
she v.'ill not have thee. 
Thou hast misused her ; and, O crown 

ing crime ! 
Hast murder'd thine own guest, the 

son of Orm, 
Gamel, at thine own hearth. 

Tostig. The slow, fat fool ! 

He drawl'd and prated so, I smote him 

suddenly : 
I knew not what I did. 

Harold. Come back to us, 

Know what thou dost, and we may find 

for thee, 
So thou be chasteu'd by thy banish- 
ment. 
Some easier Earklom. 

Tostig. What for Norway then ? 

He looks for land among you, he and 
his'. 
Harold. Seven feet of English land, 
or something more. 
Seeing he is a giant. 

Tosti'r. O brother, brother, 

O Harold— 



HAROLD. 



643 



Harold. Nay, then, come thou back 

to us ! 
Tostig. Never shall any man say 

that I, that Tostig, 
Conjured the mightier Harold from his 

North 
To do the battle for me here in Eng- 
land, 
Then left him for the meaner ! thee I — 
'J'hou hast no passion for the House of 

Godwin — 
Thou hast but cared to make thyself a 

king— 
Thou hast sold me for a cry. — 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in 

the Council — 



Harold. I have lost the boy who 
played at ball with me. 
With whont I fought another fight 

than this 
Of Stamford-bridge. 

Ahki'vth. Ay! ay! thy victories 

Over our own poor Wales, when at 

thy side 
He conquer'd with thee. 

Harold. No — the childish fist 

That cannot strike again. 

Aldwyth. Thou art too kindly. 

Why didst thou let so many Norsemen 

hence ? 
Thy fierce forekings had clinch'd their 
pirate hides 



I hate thee, and despise thee, and defy I To the bleak church doors, like kite 



thee. 

Farewell forever ! \Exit. 

Harold. On to Stamford-bridge ! 

SCENE HI.— AFTER THE BAT- 
TLE OF sta:\iford-i?ridge. 

BANQUET. 

Harold and Aldwyth. Gurth, 
Leofwi.v, Morcar, Edwin, and 
other Earls and Thanes. 

Voices. ' Hail ! Harold I Aldwyth ! 

hail, bridegroom and bride ! 
Aldwyth {talking ivith Harold). 

Answer them thou ! 

u"s our mar 

the wines 
Of wedding had been dash'd into the 

cups 
Of victory, and our marriage and thy 

glory 
Been drunk together I these poor 

hands but sew, 
Spin, broider — would that they were 

man's to have held 
The battle-axe by thee ! 

Harold. There was a moment 

When being forced aloof frolri all my 

guard, 
And striking at Hardrada and his 

madmen,^ 
I had wish'd for any weapon. 
Aldwyth. Why art thou sad .^ 



upon a barn. 
Harold. Is there so great a need to 

tell thee why } 
Aldwyth. Yea, am I not thy wife ? 
Voices. Hail, Flarold, Aldwyth ! 

Bridegroom and bride ! 

Aldwyth. Answer them ! 

\^To Harold. 

Hai-old {to all). Earls and Thanes ! 

Full thanks for your fair greeting of 

my bride ! 
Earls, Thanes, and all our country- 
men ! the day, 
Our day beside the Derwent w ill not 

shine 
Less than a star among tlie troldenest 

hours 
Of Alfred, or of Edward his great son. 
Or Athelstan, or English Ironside 
Who fought v.nth Knut, or Knut who 

coming Dane 
Died English. Every man' about his 

king 
Fought like a king ; the king like his 

own man. 
No better ; one for all, and all for one, 
One soul : and therefore have we shat- 

ter'd back 
The hugest wave from Norseiand ever 

yet 
Surged on us, and our battle-axes 

broken 
The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his 

carrion croak 



646 



HAROLD. 



From the gray sea forever. Many are 

gone — 
Drink to the. dead who died for us, the 

living 
\\'h() fought and would have died, but 

happier lived, 
If happier be to live; thev both have 

life 
In the large mouth of England, till hci^ 

voice 
Die with the world. Hail— hail ! 
Moral)'. May all invaders peri.sh like 

Ilardrada'! 
All traitors fail like Tostig! 

\_All drink "but Harold. 
Ahhuyth. Thy cup's full ! 

Harold. I saw the haild of Tostig 

cover it. [him 

Our dear, dead, traitor brother, Tostig, 
Reverently we buried. Friends, had I 

been here, 
Without too large self-lauding I must 

hold 
The sequel had been other than his 

league 
With Norway, and this battle. Peace 

be with him ! 
He was not of the worst. If there be 

those 
At banquet in this hall, and hearing 

me — 
For there be those I fear who prick'd 

the lion 
To make him spring, that sight of 

Danish blood 
Might serve an end not English — peace 

be with them 
Likewise, if they can be at peace with 

what 
God gave us to divide us from the 

wolf ! 
Aldzoyth [aside to Harold). Make 

not our Morcar sullen : it is not 

wise. 
Harold. Hail to the living who 

fought, the dead who fell ! 
Voices. Hail, b.ail ! 
First Tha7ie. How ran that answer 

which King Harold gave 
To his dead namesake, wlien he ask'd 

for England .' 



Leofiuin. " Seven feet of English 
earth, or something more, 
Seeing he is a giant ! " 

First Thane. Then for the bastard 
Six feet and nothing more! 

Leo/win. Ay, but belike 

Thou hast not learnt his measure. 

First Thane. By St. Edmund 

I over- measure him. Sound sleep to 

the man 
Here by dead Norway without dream 
or dawn ! 
I Second Thane. \\'hat, is he bragging 
i still that he will come 

I To thrust our Harold's throne from 
j under him ? 

! My nurse would tell me of a molehill 
I crying 

I To a mountain " Stand aside and room 
1 for me ! " 

j First Tham. Let him come ! let him 

come. Here's to him, sink or 

I swim ' {Drijihs. 

i Second Thane. God sink him ! 

I First Thane. Cannot hands which 

! had the strength 

To shove that stranded iceberg off our 

shores, [sea, 

And send the shatter'd North again to 

Scuttle his cockle shell } XVhat's 

Brunanburg 

To Stamford-bridge.' a war-crash, and 

so hard, [Thor — 

So loud, that, by St. Dunstan, old St. 

By God, we thought him dead — but 

our old Thor 
Heard his own thunder again, and 

A\'oke and came 
Among us again, and mark'd the sons 

of those 
Who made this Britain England, break 
the North : 

Mark'd how the war-axe swang, 
Heard how the war-horn sang, 
Mark'd how the spear-head sprang, 
Heard how the shield-wall rang, 
Iron on iron clang. 
Anvil on hammer laang — 

Second Thane. Hammer on anvil, 
hammer on anvil. Old dog, 
Thou art drunk, old dog ! 



HAROLD. 



647 



First Thane. Too drunk to fight with 

thee ! 
SccoJid Thane. Fight thou wiih thine 

own double, not with nie, 
Keep that for Norman William ! 

First Thane. Down with William. 
Third Thane. Tiie washerwoman's 

brat ! 
Fourth Thane. 'I'he tanner's bastard ! 
F'i/th 'J'hane. The Falaise byblow ! 

Enter a Thaxe, from Fez'cnsey, spat- 
te'r\i with mud. 

Harold. Av, but what late guest. 
As haggard as a fast of forty days, 
And caked and plaster'd with a h.un- 

dred mires, 
Hath stumbled on our cups ? 

Thane from Trjensey. My lord the 

King ! 
William the Norman, for the wind had 

charged — 
Harold. I felt it in the middle of 

that fierce fight 
At Stamford-bridge. William hath 

landed, ha ? 
Thane from Fevensey. Tanded at 

Pevensey — I am from Fevensey — 
Hath wasted all the land at Peven- 
sey — 
llalh harried mine own cattle — God 

confound him ! 
I have ridden night and day from Pe- 
vensey — 
A thousand sliips, a hundred thousand 

men — 
Thousands of horses, like as many 

lions 
Neighing and roaring as they leapt to 

land — 
Harold. How oft in coming hast 

thou broken bread ? 
Thane from Fe^'e/isey. Some thrice, 

or so. 
Harold. r>ring not tliy hollowness 
On our full feast. Famine is fear, 

were it but 
Of being starved. Sit down, sit down, 

and eat, 
And, when again red-blooded, speak 

again ; 



1 

i (Aside.) 

I The men that guarded England to the 

j South 

I Were scattcr'd to t!ie harvest. . . . No 

I power mine 

I To hold their force together. . . . Maiiy 

I are fallen 

I At Stamford-bridge. . . . The people, 

j stupid-sure, 

[ Sleep like their swine. ... In South 

! and North at once 

} I could not be. 

! [Aloud.) 

j Gurth, Teofwin, Morcar, Edwin ! 

! {Fointin^ to the revellers.) The curse 

I of England I these are drown'd in 

j wassail, 

I And cannot see the world but thro' 

j their wines! 

Leave them ! and thee too, Aldwyth, 

must I leave—; 
Harsh is the news I hard is our honey- 
moon ! 

i Thy pardon. ( Tirning round to his at- 
tendants.) Break the banquet up. 
... Ye four ! 
And thou, my carrier-pigeon of black 

news, 
Cram thy crop full, but come when 
thou art call'd. {Exit Harold. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. — A TENT ON A 
MOUND, FROM W^FHCH CAN 
BE SEEN THE FIELD OF 
SENLAC. 

Harold, dtting ; by him standing 
Hugh Margot the Monk, Gurth, 
Leofwlx. 

Harold. Refer my cause, my crown 

to Rome ! . . . The wolf 
Mudded the brook, and predetermined 

all. 
Thou hast said thv say, and had my 

constant " No " 
For all but instant battle. I hear no 

inort* 



648 



HAROLD. 



Margot. Hear me again — for the last 

time. Arise, 
Scatter thy people home, descend the 

hill. 
Lay hands of full allegiance in thy 

Lord's 
And crave his mercy, for the Holy 

Father 
I lath given this realm of England to 

the Norman. 
Harold. Then for the last time, monk. 

I ask again 
When had the Lateran and the Holy 

Father 
To do with England's choice of her 

own king ? 
ATa7-got. Earl, the first Christian 

Caesar drew to the East 
To leave the Pope dominion in the 

West. [West. 

lie gave him all the kingdoms of the 

Harold. So ! — did he .'' — Earl — I have 

a mind to play 
The William with thine eyesight and 

thy tongue. 
Earl — ay — thou art but a messenger of 

W'iiliam. 
I am weary — go : ma'KC me not wroth 

with thee ! 
Margot. Mock-king, I am the mes- 
senger of God, 
His Norman Daniel; Mene, Mene, 

Tekel ! 
Is thy wrath Hell, that I should spare 

to cry, 
Von heaven is wroth with t/iee ? Hear 

me again ! 
Our Saints have moved the Church 

that moves the world, 
And all the Heavens and very God: 

they heard — 
They know King Edward's promise 

and thine — thine. 
Harold. Should they not know free 

England crowns herself? 
Ts^ot know that he nor I had power to 

promise .'' 
Not know that Edward cancell'd his 

own promise ? 
And for f/iy part therein — Back to that 

juggler, {Rising. 



Tell him the Saints are nobler than 

he dreams, 
Tell him that God is nobler than the 

Saints, 
And tell him we stand arm'd on Sen- 
lac Hill, 
And bide the doom of God. 

Margot. Hear it thro' me. 

The realm for which thou art forsworn 

is cursed, 
The babe enwomb'd and at the breast 

is cursed. 
The corpse thou whelmest with thine 

earth is cursed, 
The soul who fighteth on thy side is 
cursed, 
seed t 
cursed, 
The steer wherewith thou ploughest 

thy field is cursed, 
The fowl that fleeth o'er thy field is 

cursed, 
And thou, usurper, liar — 

Harold. Out, beast monk ! 

{Lifting his ha?id to strike him. 
GuRTH stops the blotv. 
I ever hated monks. 

Margot. I am but a voice 

Among you : murder, martyr me if ve 
wHl— 
Harold. Thanks, Gurth ! The sim- 
ple, silent, honest man 
Is worth a world of tonguesters. {To 

Margot.) Get thee gone ! 
He means the thing he says. See him 
out safe. 
Leofwin. He hath blown himself as 
red as fire v.ith curses. 
An honest fool ! Follow m';, honest 

fool, 
But if thou blurt thy curse among our 

folk, 
I know not — I may give that egg-bald 

head 
The tap that silences. 

Harold. See him out safe. 

{Exeunt Leofwin and Margot. 

Gurth. Thou hast lost thine even 

temper, brother Harold ! 
Harold. Gurth, when I past by Wal- 
tham, my foundation 



HAROLD. 



649 



For men who serve the neighbor, not 

themselves, 
I cast me down prone, praying; and, 

when I rose, 
Tliey told me that the Holy Rood had 

lean'd 
And bow'd above me ; whether that 

which held it 
Had weaken'd and the Rood itself was 

bound 
To that necessity which binds us 
/ down ; 
AVhether it bow'd at all but in their 

fancy ; 
Or if it bow'd, whether it symboli'd 

ruin 
Or glory, who shall tell ? but they were 

sad. 
And somewhat sadden'd me. 

Gurf/i. Yet if a fear. 

Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange 

Saints 
By whom thou swarest should have 

power to balk 
Thy puissance in this fight with him 

who made 
And heard thee swear — brother — / 

have not sworn — 
If the king fall, may nat the kinsdom 

fall ? 
But if I fall, I fall ; and thou art king ; 
And if I win, I win, and thou art king ? 
Draw thou to London, there make 

strength to breast 
Whatever chance, but leave this day 

to me. 
Leofunn [enter hig). And waste the 

land about thee as thou goest, 
And be thy hand as winter on the 

field. 
To leave the foe no forasce. 

Harold. ^^oh\<t Gurth ! 

Best son of Godwin ! If I fall, I fall— 
The doom of God ! IIow should the 

people fight 
When the king flies ? And, Leofwin, 

art thou mad ? 
How should the King of England 

waste the fields 
Of England, his own people ? — No 

glance yet 



Of the Northumbrian helmet on the 
heath ? 
Lcofzvin. No, but a shoal of wives 
upon the heath, 
And some one saw thy willy-nilly nun 
Vying a tress against our golden tern. 
Harold. Vying a tear with* our cold 
dews, a sigh 
With these low-moaning heavens. Let 

her be fetch'd. 
We have parted from our wife without 
j reproach, 

! Tho' we have dived thro' all her prac- 
! tices ; 

j And that is well. 

Leofwin. I saw her even now: 

I She hath not left us. 
I Harold. Naught of Morcar then ? 
i Gurth. Nor seen, nor heard ; thine, 
{ William's or his own 

As wind blows, or tide flows: belike 

he watches. 
If this war-storm in one of its rough 

rolls 
Wash up that old crown of Northum- 
berland. 
Harold. I married her for Morcar — 
a sin against 
The truth of love. Evil for good, it 

seems, 
Is oft as childless of the good as evil 
For evil. 

Leofu<i7i. Good for good hath borne 
at times 
A bastard false as William. 

Harold. Ay, if Wisdom 

Pair'd not with Good. But I am some- 
what worn, 
A snatch of sleep were like the peace 

of God. 
Gurth, Leofwin, go once more about 

the hill— 
What did the dead man call it — San- 

guelac, 
The lake of blood ? 

Leofiui7i. A lake that dips in Wil- 
liam 
J\.s well as Harold. 

Harold. Like enough. I have seen 
The trenches dug, the palisades up- 
rear'd 



650 



IfAROLD. 



And wattled thick with ash and wi!h)w- 

wands ; 
\'ca, wrouglit at tliem myself. (jo 

round once more ; 
See all be sound and whole. No Xor- 

man horse 
Can shatter England, standing shield 

by shield ; 
Tell that again to all. 

Gurth. I will, good brother. 

Harold. Our guardsman hath but 
toil'd his hand and foot, 
1 hand, foot, heart and head. Some 
wine ! 

\Oiie pours ivine ijiio a goblet, loJiich 
he hands to Harold. 
Too much ! 
What ? we must use our battle-axe to- 
day. 
Our guardsmen have slepr well, since 
we came in ? 
Leofivi/i. Ay, slept and snored. 
Your second-sighted man 
That scared the dying conscience of 

the king, 
Misheard their snores for groans. 

They are up again. 
And chanting that old song of Brunan- 

burg 
Where England conquer'd. 

Harold. That is well. The Norman, 
What is he doing ? 

Leoftvin. Praying for Normandv ; 
Our scouts have heard the tinkle of 
their bells. 
Harold. And our old songs are 
prayers for England too ! 
But by all Saints — 
Leofzoin. l>arring the Norman ! 

Harold. Nay, 

\Vere the great trumpet blowing 

doomsday dawn, 
r needs mvist rest, ('all when the 
Norman moves — 

{Exeunt all but Harold. 
No horse — thousands of horses — our 

shield wall — 
Wall — break it not — bfeak not — 
break— [Sleeps. 

Vision of Edward. Son Harold, I 
thy king, who came before 



To tell thee thou shouldst win at 

Stamford-bridge, 
Come yet once more, from where I am 

at peace, 
Because I loved thee in mv mortal 

day, ' [hill- 

To tell thee thou shalt die on Scnlac 
Sanguelac ! 

J'ision of Wulfiioth. O brother, from 

my ghastly oubliette 
I send my voice across the narrow 

seas — 
No more, no more, dear brother, nev- 
ermore — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Tostig. O brother, most 

unbrotherlike to me. 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in 

my life, 
I give my voice against thee from the 

grave — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of A\'>nua7i Sai/its. O hapless^ 

Harold ! King but for an h(Hir ! 
Thou swarest falsely by our blessed 

bones. 
We give our voice against thee out of 

heaven ! 
Sanguelac! Sanguelac! The arrow ! 

the arrow ! 
Harold {starting tip, battle-axe in 

hand). Away ! 
My battle-axe against your voices. 

Peace ! 
The" king's last word — " the arrow ! " 

I shall die — 
I die for England then, v/ho lived for 

England — 
What nobler? men must die. 
I cannot fall into a falser world — 
I have done no man wrong. Tostig, 

poor brother. 
Art tJion so anger'd ? 
Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy 

hands 
Save for thy wild and violent will that 

wrench'd 
All hearts of freemen from thee. I 

could do 
No other than this way advise the 

kins 



HAROLD. 



6si 



Against the race of Godwin. Is it 

possible 
That mortal men should bear their 

earthly heats 
Into yon bloodless world, and threaten 

us thence 
L'nschool'd of Death? Thus then 

thou art revenged — 
I left our England naked to the South 
To meet thee in the North. The 

Norseman's raid I 

\ lath helpt the Norman, and the race | 

of Godwin • 

Hath ruin'd Godwin. No — our wak- ; 

ing thoughts j 

Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the \ 

pools 
Of sullen slumber, and arise again 
Disjointed: only dreams — where mine 

own self 
Takes part against myself ! Why ? 

for a spark 
Of self-disdain born in me when I 

sware 
Falsely to him, the falser Norman, 

over 
His gilded ark of mummy-saints, by 

Vvhom 
1 knew not that I sware, — not for my- 
self— 
For England — yet not wholly — 

Enter Edith. 

Edith, Edith, 
(]et thou into thy cloister as the king 
\Viird it : be safe ; the perjury-mon- 

gering Count 
Hath made too good an use of Holy 

Church 
To break her close I There the great 

God of truth 
Fill all thine hours with peace ! — A ly- 
ing devil 
Hath haunted me — mine oath — my 

wife — I fain 
Had made my marriage not a lie ; I 

could not : 
Thou art my bride I and thou in after 

years 
Praying perchance for this poor soul 

of mine 



In cold, white cells beneath an icy 

moon — 
This memory to thee ! — and this to 

England, 
My legacy of war against the Pope 
From child to child, from Pope to 

Pope, from age to age, 
Till the sea wash her level with her 

shores, 
Or till the Pope be Christ's. 

Enter Aldwni i;. 

Ahkvyth [to Edith). Av/ay from 

him! 
Edith. I will ... I have not spoken 
to the king 
One word ; and one I must. Fare- 
well ! {Going. 
Harold. Not ^•et. 
Stay. 

Edith. To what use ? 
Harold. The king commands thee, 
woman ! 

{To AldWyth.) 
Have thvtwo brethren sent their forces 
in?' 
Aldtvyth. Nay, I fear not. 
Harold. Then there's no force in 
thee ! [ear 

Thou didst possess thyself of Edward's 
To part me from the woman that I 

loved ! 
Thou didst arouse the fierce North- 
umbrians ! 
Thou hast been false to England and 

to me ! 
As . . . in some sort ... I have been 

false to thee. 
Leave me. No more — Pardon on both 
sides — Go ! 
Aldwyth. Alas, my lord, I loved 

thee. 
Harold. With a love 

Passing thy love for Griffyth ! where- 
fore nov/ 
Obey mv first and last commandment. 
Go! 
Aldwyth. O Harold ! husband ! Shall 

we meet again ? 
Harold. After the battle— after the 
battle. Go. 



652 



HAROLD. 



Ahhi'vth. I go. [Aside.) That I 
could stab her standing there ! 

\Exit ArnvvYTH. 
Edith. Alas, my lord, she loved 

thee. 
Harold. Never ! never ! 
Edith. I saw it in her eyes! 
Harold. I see it in thine. 

And not on tliee— nor England — fall 
God's doom ! 
E.dith. On thee ? on me. And thou 
art England ! Alfred 
Was England. Ethelred was nothing. 

England 
Ls but her king, and thou art Harold ! 
Harold. Edith, 

The sign in heaven — the sudden blast 

at sea — 
My fatal oath — the dead Saints — the 

dark dreams — 
The Pope's Anathema — the Holy 

Rood 
That bow'd to me at Waltham — Edith, 

if 
I, the last English King of England — 
Edith. No, 

First of a line that coming from the 

people, 
And chosen by the people — 

Harold. And fighting for 

And dying for the people — 

Edith. Living ! living ! 

Harold. Yea so, good cheer ! thou 
art Harold, I am Edith ! 
Took not thus wan ! 

Edith. What matters how T look? 
Have we not broken Wales and Norse- 
land? slain, 
Whose "life was all one battle, incar- 
nate war, 
Their giant-king, a mightier man-in- 
arms 
Than William ? 

Harold. Ay, my girl, no tricks in 
him. — 
No bastard he ! when all was lost, he 

yell'd, 
And bit his shield, and dash'd on it 

the ground, 
And swaying his two-handed sword 
about him, 



Two deaths at every swing, ran in up- 
on us 
And died so, and T loved him as T hate 
This liar who made me liar. If Hate 

can kill. 
And Loathing wield a Saxon battle- 
axe — 
Edith. Waste not thy might before 

the battle ! 
Harold. And thou must hence. 
Stigand will see thee safe. 
And so — Farewell. 

[He is goi)ig, hut tnnis baek. 
The ring thou darest not wear, 
I have had it fashion'd, see, to meet 
my hand. 

[Harold sho7vs the rii/g, which is 
o?i his finger. 
Farewell ! 

[He isgoijig, hut turns back again. 
I am dead as Death this day to aught 

of earth's 
Save William's death or mine. 

Edith. Thy death ! — to-day ! 

Is it not thy birthday ? 

Harold. Ay, that happy day ! 

A birthday welcome ! happy days and 

many ! 
One — this ! [ They embrace. 

Look, I will bear thy blessing into the 

battle 
And front the doom of God. 

N'orman cries [heard i}i the distance). 
HaRou! HaRou! 

Ejiter GuRTH. 

Gurth. The Norman moves ! 
Harold. Harold and Holy Cross! 
[Exeunt Harold ajidGuKVH. 

Enter Stigand. 
Stiga7id. Our Church in arms — the 

lamb the lion — not 
Spear into pruning hook — the counter 

way — 
Cowl, helm ; and crozier, battle-axe. 

Abbot Alfwig, 
Leofric, and all the monks of Peter- 

boro' 
Strike for the king ; but I, old wretch, 

old Stigand, 



HAROLD. 



633 



With hands too limp to brandish iron 

— and yet 
I have a power — would Harold. ask me 

for it— 
I have a power. 

Edith. What power, hol.y father? 
Sligand. Power now from Harold to 
connnand thee hence 
And see thee safe from Senlac. 

Edith. I remain ! 

Stigaud. Yea, so will I, daughter, 
until I find 
Which way the battle balance. 1 can 

see it 
From where we stand: and, live or die, 

I would 
I were among them ! 

Cmwns from IValtham {singing with- 
out) . 

Salva patriani 
Sancte Pater, 
Salva Fill, 
Salva Spirit us, 
Salva patiiam. 
Sancta Mater.* 

Edith. Are those the blessed angels 

quiring, father 1 
Stigand. No, daughter, but the 
canons out of Waltham, 
The king's foundation, that have fol- 
low'd hiin. 
Edith. O God of battles, make their 
wall of shields 
Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their pal- 
isades ! 
What is that whirring sound ? 

Stigand. The Norman arrow ! 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — is 

he safe ? 
.Stigand. The. king of England stands 
between his banners. 
He glitters on the crowning of the hill. 
(Jod save King Harold ! 

Edith. — chosen by his people, 

.And fighting for his people I 

Stigand. There is one 

Come as Goliath came of vore — he 

fiings _ 

His brand m air and catches it again; 
He is chanting some old war-song. 



Edith. 
To meet him ? 



And no David 



* The a tliroucliout tliese byinns should be 
sounded broad, as iu " f^nher." 



Stigand. Ay, there siirings a Sa.xon 
on him, 
Falls — and another falls. 
Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. Lo I our good Gurth hath 

smitten him to the death. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of 

Harold! 
Canons {singing). 

Hostisin Angliam 

Ruit prasdator, 
Illoruni, doniine, 

Scutum scindatur ! 
Hostis per Angliae 

PJagas bacchatur ; 

Casa crematur, 

Pastor fugatur 

Grex trucidatur — 

Stigand. Illos trucida, Domine. 
Edith. Ay, good father. 

Canons {singing). 

Illorum scelera 
Pceua sequatur ! 

English Cries. ■ Harold and Holy 

Cross! Out! out! 
Stigand. Our javelins 

Answer their arrows. All the Norman 

foot 
Are storming up the hill. The range 

of knights 
Sit, each a statue on his horse, and 
wait. 
English Cries. Harold and God Al- 
mighty ! 
Nor7nan Cries. Ha Rou ! HaRou! 
Canons {singing). 

Eaues cum pedite 

Prspediatur ! 
Illorum in lacrymas 

Cruor fundatur ! 
Pereant, pereant, 

Anglia precatur. 

Stigand. Look, daughter, look. 
Edith. Nay, father, look for me ! 

Stigand. Our axes lighten with a 
single flash 
About the summit of the hill, and heads 
And arms are sliver'd off and splinter'd 
by 



654 



HAROLD. 



Their lightning — and they fl)- — the 
Norman flies. 
Edith. Stigand, O fatlicr, have we 

won tlie day ? 
Sli^i^ajid. No,'4laiighter, no — Ihey fall 
behind the horse — 
'I'heir horse are thronging to the bar- 
ricades ; 
I see the gonfanon of Holy Peter 
Floating above their hehiiets — ha ! he 
is down ! 
Edith. lie down ! Who down ? 
Stigand. The Norman count is down. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of 

Engl an cH 
Stigand. No, no, he hath risen again 
— he bares his face — 
Shouts something — he points onward 

— all their horse 
Swallow the hill locust-like, swarm- 
ing up. 
Edith. O God of battles, make his 
battle-axe keen [heavy 

As thine own sharp-dividing justice, 
As thine own bolts that fall on crime- 

ful heads 
Charged with the weight of heaven 
wherefrom they fall ! 
Canons (singing). 

Jacta tonifriia 

Deus bellator I 
Surgas e tenebris, 

Sis vindicator I 
Fulmina, fulmina 

Deus vastator ! 

Edith. O God of battles, they are 
three to one, 
Make thou one man as three to roll 
them down ! 
Canons {singijig). 

Equuscum equite 

Dejiciatur ! 
Acies, Acies 

Prona sternatur ! 
Illorum lanceas 

Frange Creator ! 

Stioand. Yea, yea, for how their 

lances snap and shiver 
Against the shifting blaze of Harold's 

axe ! 
War-woodman of the old Woden, how 

he fells 



. The mortal copse of faces! There! 
j and there • 

i The horse and horseman canr.ot meet 
i the shield. 

The blow that brains the horseman 

cleaves the horse. 
The horse and horseman roll along the 

hill, 
They fly once more, they fly, the Nor- 
man flies ! 

Equus ciiin eqiiite 
Prscipuatur. 

Edith. O God, the God of truth hath 
heard my cry. 
Follow them,' follov,- them, drive them 
to the sea ! 

Iilornm scelera 
Pcena sequatur ! 

Stigand. Truth! no; a lie ; a trick, a 
Norman trick I 
They turn on the pursuer, horse against 

foot, 
They murder all th.at follow. 

Edith. Have merer on us 1 

Stigand. I lot-headed foo]s--to burst 
the wall of shields ! 
They have broken the commandment 
of the king ! 
Edith. His oath was broken — O holy 
Norman Saints. 
Ve that arc now of heaven, and see be 

yond 
Your Norman shrines, pardon it, par 

don it. 
That he forsware himself for all he 

loved, 
Me, me and all ! Took out upon the 
battle ! 
Stigand. They press again upon the 
barricades. 
My sight is eagle, but the strife so 

thick— 
This is the hottest of it : hold, ash ! 
hold, v/illow ! 
English Cries. Out, out ! 
Norman Cries. Ha Ron! 

Stigand. Ha! Gurth hath leapt uDon 
him 
And slain him: he hath fallen. 
I Edith. And I am heard. 



HAROLD. 



65s 



Glory to God in the Highest! fallen, 
fallen ! 
Sti;^aud. No, no, his horse — he 
mounts another — wields 
I lis war-club, dashes it on Gurth, and 

Gurth, 
Our noble Gurth, is down ! 

F.dith. Have mercy on us ! 

St/fiaitd. And Leofwin is down ! 
]id:th. Have mercy on us ! 

() Thou that kiiowest, let not my 

strong prayer 
I'e weakeri'd in thy sight, because Hove 
The husband of ajiother I 

Norman Cries. Ha Rou I Ha Rou ! 
Eciilh. I do not hear our English 

war-cry. 
Stig(ir,d. No. 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — is 

he safe ? 
Stigand. He stands between the ban- 
ners with the dead 
So piled about him he can hardly move. 
Edith {takes up the war ery). Out! 

out! 
j\orman Cries. Ha Rou I 
Edith: {eries out). Harold and Holy 

Cross ! 
A'ortnaJi Cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 
Edith. What is that whirring sound ? 
Siigaiid. niie Norman sends his 
arrows up to Heaven, 
Tliey fall on those within the palisade! 
Edith. I,ook out upon the hill — is 

Harold there .'' 
Stigaud. Sanguelac — Sanguelac — the 
arrow — the arrow ! — awav ! 



SCKNK H. — FIELD OF THE 
DEAD. NIGHT. 

Aldwyth (/;/i/ Edith. 

Aldwvth. O Edith, art thou here ? 
O Harold, Harold— 
Our Harold — we shall never see him 
more: 
Edith. For there was more than 
sister in my kiss, 
And so the saints were wroth. I can- 
not love them. 



For they are Norman saints — and yet I 
! should — 

They are so much holier than their 
j harlot's son 

; With whom they play'd their game 

against the king ! 
j Aldwyth. The king is slain, the king- 
I dom overthrown ! 

I Edith. No matter ! 
j Aldwyth. How no matter, Harold 
j slain "i — 

I cannot find his body. O help me 
thou ! [thee, 

Edith, if I ever wrought against 
Forgive me thou, and lielp me here ! 

Edith. No matter. 

j Aldwyth. Not help me, nor forgive 
i me } 

Edith. So thou saidest. 

Ahhvyth. I say it now, forgive me I 

Edith. Cross me not! 

1 am seeking one who wedded me in 

secret. 
Whisper I God's angels onlv know it. 

Ha ! 
What art thou doing here among the 

■dead .' 
They are stripping the dead bodies 

naked yonder, 
And thou art come to rob them of their 
I rings ! 

j Aldwyth. O Edith, Edith, I have lost 

both crown 
I And husband. 
j Edith. So have L 

Aldivyth. I teil thee girl, 

I am seeking my dead Harold. 

Edith. And I mine ! 

The Holy Father strangled him with a 

hair 
Of Peter, and his brother Tostig helpt; 
The wicked sister clapt her hands and 

laught ; 
Th.en all the dead fell on him. 

Aldwyth. Edith, Edith— 

Edith. What was he like, this hus- 
band ? like to thee ? 
Call not for help from me. I knew 

hi in not. 
He lies not here : not close beside the 
standard. 



6s6 



HAROLD. 



Here fell the truest, manliest hearts of 

England. 
Go further hence and find him. 
Ahhvyth. ■ She is crazed ! 

£(^///i. That doth not matter either. 

Lower the light. 
He must be here. 

E;i/er huo Canons OSGOI) atid Athel- 
RIC, with torches. They turn oz'er 
the dead bodies and exam hie them as 
they pass. 

Osgod. I think that this is Thurkill. 
Athelric. More likely Godric. 
Osi^od. I am sure this body 

Is Alfwig, the king's uncle. 

Athelric. So it is ! 

No, no — brave Gurth, one gash from 
brow to knee ! 
Osi^od. And here is Leofwin. 
Edith. And htre \s //c / 

Ahhvyth. Harold ? Oh no — nay, if 
it were — my God, 
They have so maim'd and martyrxl all 

his face 
There is no man can swear to him. 

Edith. But one woman ! 

Look you, we never mean to part 

again. 
I have found him, I am happy. 
Was there not some one ask'd me for 

forgivenesL? 
I yield it freely, being the true wife 
Of this dead King, who never bore re- 
venge. 

Enter CouNT William and William 
Malet. 

IVdhavi. Who be these women ? 

And what body is this.^ 
Edith. Harold, thy better ! 
IVilliam. Ay, and what art thou ? 
Edith. His wife .> 
Malet. Not true, my girt, here is the 

Queen ! ^Pointing out Aldwyth. 
William {to Aldwyth). Wast thou 

his Queen .' 
Ahhvyth. I was the Queen of Wales. 
William. Why then of England. 

Madam, fear us not. 



(r^ Malet.) 
Knowest thou this other } 

Malet. When I visited England 

Some held she was his wife in secret — 

some — 
Well — some believed she v.-as h.is para- 
mour. 
Edith. Norman, thou liest! liars all 
of you. 
Your Saints and all ! /am his wife! 

and she — 
For look, our marriage ring! 

\She draws it off the finger of 



Harold. 



I lost it somehow — 
with it when I was 



I lost it, playm^ 

wild. 
That bred the doubt : but I am wiser 

now . . . 
I am too wise . . . Will none among 

you all 
Bear me true witness — only for this 

once — 
That I have found it here again ? 

\She puts it on. 

And thou, 

Thy wife am I forever and evermore. 

[Ealls on the body and dies. 

William. Death ! — and enough of 

death for this one day, 
The day of St. Calixtus, and the day, 
My day, when I was born. 

Malet. And this dead king's 

Who, king or not, hath kinglike fought 

and fallen, ^ 

His birthday, too. It seems but 

yester-even 
I hefd it with him in his English halls, 
His dav, with all his roof tree ringing 

" Harold," 
Before he fell into the snare of Guy ; 
When all men Counted Harold would 

be king. 
And Harold was m.ost happy. 

William. Thou art half English 

Take them away ! 

Malet, I vow to'build a church to God 
Here on this hill of battle ; let our 

high altar 
Stand "where their standard fell..-. 

where these two lie. 



THE REVENGE. 



657 



Take them away, I do not love to see 

them, 
riuck the dead woman off the dead 

man, Malet ! 
Malet. Faster than ivy. Must I liack 

her arms off ? 
How shall I part them ? 

William. Leave them. Let them 

be! 
Bury him and his paramour together. 
He that was false in oath to me, it 

seems 
Was false to his own wife. We will 

not give him 
A Christian burial : yet he was a war- 
rior, 
And wise, yea truthful, till that 

blighted vow 
Which God avenged to-day. 
Wrap them together m a purple cloak 
And lay them both upon the waste 

seashore 
At Hastings, there' to guard the land 

for which 
He did forswear himself — a warrior— 

ay, 
And but that Holy Peter fought for 

us. 
And that the false Northumbrian held 

aloof, 



Three horses had I slain beneath me : 

twice 
I thought that all was lost. Since I 

knew battle. 
And that was from my boyhood, never 

yet- 
No, by the splendor of God — have I 

fought men 
Like Harold and his brethern, and his 

guard [king 

Of English. Every man about his 
Fell where he stood. They loved him : 

and, pray God 
My Normans may but move as true 

with me 
To the door of death. Of one self- 
stock at first, 
Make them again one people — Nor- 
man, English ; 
And English, Norman ; — we should 

have a hand 
To grasp the world with, and a foot to 

stamp it. . . . 
Flat. Praise the vSaints. It is over. 

No more blood ! 
I am King of Engiand, so they thwart 

me not. 
And I will rule according to their 

laws. 

[To Aldwyth.) 
And save for that chance arrow which I Madam, we will entreat thee with all 

the saints j honor. 

Sharpened and sent against him — who ! Ahhvyth. My punishment is more 
can tell ? — I than I can bear. 



THE REVENGE. 



A BALLAD OF THE FLEET, 1591. 



At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay. 
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away 
*' Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty-three I " 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : "'Fore God I am no coward 
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear. 
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. 
We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty-three ? " 
42 



65S rilE REVEA'GE. 



Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : " I know you arc no coward ; 

You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. 

But I've ninety men or more that are lying sick ashore 

I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard. 

To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." 



So Lord Howard ivast av,-ay with five ships of war that day, 
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land 
Very carefully and slow, 
Men of Bideford in Devon, 
And we laid them on the balla>t down below ; 
For we brought them all aboard, 

And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, 
.To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. 



He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, 

And he sail'd away from Flores till the Spaniard came jn sight, 

With his huge sea-castles heaving upo:i the weather bow. 

" Shall we fight or shall we fly } 

Good Sir Richard, let us know, 

For to fight is but to die ! 

There'll be little of us left by the time the sun be set/' 

And Sir Richard said again': " We be all good Englishmen. 

Let us bang these d^gs of Seville, the children of the d«vil, 

For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." 



Sir Richard spoke, and he laugh'd, and we roared a hurrah, and so 
The little " Revenge"' ran ou sheer into the heart of the foe. 
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below ; 
For half of their flcc't to the right and half to the left were seen, 
And the little " Revenge " ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. 



Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd, 
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft 
Running on and on. till delay'd 

By their mountain-like " San Philip " that, of fifteen hundred tons, 
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, 
Took the breath from our sails, and we stav'd. 



And while now the great " San Philip " hung above us like a cloud 
W^hence the thunderbolt will fall 
Long and loud, 



THE REVENGE. 659 



Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day, 

And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay 

And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 



viir. 
But anon the great " San Philip, she bethought herself and went, 
Having that within her womb that had left her ill-content; 
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, 
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the land. 

IX. 

And the sun v.-ent down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea. 
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-bui!t galleons came, 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame ; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and ler shame; 
For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more — 
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before ? 



.•'or he said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " 

Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; 

And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was gone. 

With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, 

But a bullet slruck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, 

And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, 

And he said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " 



And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, 
.And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring ; 
iUit they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting, 
So they watch'd what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 
.And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; 
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side ; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
" We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 
As may never be fought again I 
We have won great glory, my men ! 
And a day less or more 
At sea or 'shore, 



66o THE REVENGE. 



We die — does it matter when?- 

Sink me the ship. Master Gunner — sink her, split her in twain ! 

Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain! " 

XII. 

And the gunner said, " Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply: 

" We have children, we have wives. 

And the Lord hath spared our lives. 

We will make the Spaniard ]3romisc, if we yield, to let us go; 

We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow " 

And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. . 



And the statelv Spariish men to their flagship bore him tlien, 
Where hey laid him^ by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, 
And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 

"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; 
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do : 
With a joful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die ! " — 
And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 



And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, 

And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap 

That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; 

Was he devil or man .'' He was devil for aught they knew, 

But they sank his body Vv'ith honor down into the deep. 

And they mann'd the " Revenge " with a swarthier alien crew, 

And av.ay she sail'd v.-ith her loss and long'd for her own ; 

When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep. 

And the water began to heave and tlie weather to moan, 

And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, 

And a wave like the waVe that is raised by an earthquake grew, 

Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags. 

And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, 

And the little " Revenge " herself went down by the island crags 

To be lost evermore in the main. 



THE DEFENCE OE L UCKA O W. 66 , 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 

DEDICATORY POEM TO THE PRINCESS ALICE. 



Dead Princess, living Power, if that, which lived 
True life, live on — and if the fatal kiss, 
Born of true life and love, divorce thee not 
From earthly love and life — if what we call 
The spirit flash not all at once from out 
This shadow into Substance — then perhaps 
The mellow'd murmur of the people's praise 
From thine own State, and all our breadth of realm, 
Where Love and Longing dress thy deeds in light, 
Ascends to tliee ; and this March morn that sees 
Thy Soldier-brother's bridal orange-bloom 
i^reak thro' the yews and cypress of thy grave, 
And thine Imperial mother smile again. 
May send one ray to thee ! and who can tell — 
Thou — England's England-loving daughter — thou 
Dying so English thou wouldst have her flag 
Borne on thy coffin — where is he can swear , 

But that some broken gleam from our poor earth 
May touch thee, while remembering thee, I lay 
At thy pale feet this ballad of the deeds 
Of England, and her banner in the East ? 



Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou 
Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry ! 
Never with mightier glory than when we had rear'd thee on high 
Hying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Lucknow — 
Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised thee anew 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 

II. 

Frail wer-e the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives- 
Women and children among us, God help them, our children and wives! 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen days or for twenty at most. 
" Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his post 1 " 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the best of the brave : 
Cold were his brows v.'hen we kiss'd him — we laid him that night in his £ 
" Every man die at his post! " and there hail'd on our houses and halls 
Death from their rifle-bullets, and death from their cannon-balls, 
Death in our innermost chamber, and death* at our slight barricade, 



662 THE DEFENCE OF LUC KNOW. 



Deatli while we stood with the musket, and death while we stoopt to the spade, 
Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell 
Striking the hospi'tal wall, crashing thro' it, their shot and their shell, 
Death — for their spies were among us, their marksmen were told of our best. 
So that the brute bullet broke thro' the brain that could think for the rest ; 
Jnillets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain at our feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a street, 
Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace, and death inthegroundl 
Mine ?• yes, a mine ! Countermine ! down, down ! and creep thro' the hole ! 
Keep the revolver in hand ! You can hear him — the murderous mole, 
{^uiet, ah ! quiet — wait till the point of the pickaxe be thro' ! 
Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than before — 
Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more 
And ever upon the topnrost roof our banner of England blew. 



Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced on a day 
Soon as the blast of that underground thunderclap echo'd away. 
Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur like so many fiends in their hell- 
Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell— ^ 
Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemy fell. 
What have they done ? where is it ? Out yonder. Guard the Redan ! 
Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the Bailey-gate ! storm, and it ran 
Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side 
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drown'd by the tide — 
So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who shall escape ? 
Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers and men I 
Ready! take aim at their'leaders — their masses are gapp'd with our grape- 
Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging forward again, 
Flying and foil'd at the last by the handful they could not subdue; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 



Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and in limb, 

Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure, 

Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on him ; 

Still — could we Watch at all points ? we were every day fewer and fewer 

There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that past: 

"Children and wives — if the tigers leap into the fold unawares — 

Every man die at his post — and the foe may outlive us at last — 

letter to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into theirs ! " 

Roar upon roar in a moment two mines by the enemy sprung 

Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. 

Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure they your hand be as true ! 

Sharp is the fire of assault, better aim'd are your flank fusilades — 

Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung, 

Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with hand-grenades 

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 



THE DEI-EXCE OF LUCK^'OIV. 663 



Tlien on another wild mon^.ing another wild earthquake out-tore 
Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more. 
Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the sun — 
One has leapt up on the breach, crying out: "Follow me, follow me I " 
Mark him — he falls ! then another,' and him too, and down goes he. 
Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the traitors had won } 
Boardings and rafters and doors — an embrasure ! make way for the gun ! 
Xow double-charge it with grape ! It is charged and we fire, and they run 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due ! 
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few, 
thought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote them, and slew 
That ever up(Mi the topmost roof our banner in India blew. 



Men will forget wliat we suffer and not what we Ao. We can fight ; 

l^ut to be soldier all day and be sentinel all thro' the night — 

Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying alarms. 

Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and soundings to arms, 

Ever the labor of fifty that had to be done by five, 

Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive, 

Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes around, 

Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid in the ground, 

1 [eat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies, 

Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torture of flies. 

Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English field, 

(Jholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that luoidd \\o\. be heal'd, 

Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-pitiless knife, — 

Torture and trouble in vain, — for it never could save us a life, 

\'alor of delicate wom.en who tended the hospital bed. 

Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead, 

(}rief for our perishiiig children, and never a moment for grief. 

Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief, 

Havelock baffled, os beaten, or butcher'd for all that we knew — 

Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the still-shatter'd walla 

Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls — 

But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 

VI T. 

Hark cannonade, fusilade ! is it true what was told by the scout ? 
(3utram and Havelock breaking their way thro' the fell mutineers ! 
Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls — 
But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 

viir. 

Hark canonade, fusillade ! is it true what was told by the scout ? 
Outram and Plavelock breaking their way thro' the fell mutineers I 
Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears 1 
All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout, 



664 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Ilavelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers, 
Forth from their holes and their hidings our women and children come out, 
Blessing the wholesome wh'te faces of Havelock's good fusileers, 
Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the Highlander wet with their tears ! 
Dance to the pibroch ! — saved ! we are saved ! — is it you ? is it you ? 
Saved l)y the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing of Heaven ! 
" Hold it for fifteen days ! " we liave held it for eighty-seven 1 
And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England blew. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



The original preface to " The Lover's Tale" states that it was composed in my nmeteentli 
year. Two only of the tiiree parts then written were printed, when, feehng the imperfection of 
tlie poem, I withdrew it from the press. One of my friends, however, who, boj'-like, admired 
the boy's work, distributed among our common associates of tiiat hour some copies of these two 
parts, witliout my knowledge, without the omissions and amendments which I had in contempla- 
tion, and marred by the many misprints of the compositor. Seeing that these two parts have of 
late been mercilessly pirated, and that what I had deemed scarce worthy to live is not allowed to 
die, may I not be pardoned if I suffer the whole poem at last to come into the light, accompanied 
with a reprint of the sequel,— a work of my mature life,—'* The Golden Supper.^ " 

May, 1879. 



ARGUMENT. 

Julian, wliose cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and rival, 
Lionel, endeavors to narrate the story of his own love for iier, and the strange sequel. He 
speaks (in parts IL and IIL) of having been haunted by visions and the sound of bells, tolling 
for a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage ; but he breaks away, overcome, as he approaches 
the Event, -and a witness to it completes the tale. 



I. 



Here far away, seen from the topmost 

cliff, 
Filling with purple gloom the vacan- 
cies, 
Between the tufted hills, the sloping 

seas 
Hung in mid-heaven, and half way 

down rare sails, 
White as white clouds, floated from 

sky to sky. 
Oh ! pleasant breast of waters, quiet 

bay. 
Like to a quiet mind in the loud world. 
Where the chafed breakers of the outer 

sea 
Sank powerless, as anger falls aside 



And withers on the breast of peaceful 

love ; 
Thou didst receive the growth of vines 

that fledged 
The hills that watched thee, as Love 

watcheth Love, [self 

In thine own essence, and delight thy- 
To make it wholly thine on sunny days. 
Keep thou thy name of " Lover's Bay." 

See, sirs. 
Even now the Goddess of the Past, 

that takes 
The heart, and sometimes touches but 

one string 
That quivers, and is silent, and some- 
times 
Sweeps suddenly all its half-moulder'd 

chords 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



665 



To some old melody, begins to play 
That air which pleased her first. I 

feel thy breath ; 
I come, great Mistress of the ear and 

eye : 
Thy breath is of the pine wood ; and 

tho' years 
Have hollow'd out a deep and stormy 

strait 
Betwixt the native land of Love and 

me, 
Breathe but a little on me, and the sail 
Will draw me to the rising of the sun, 
The lucid chambers of the morning star, 
And East of Life. 

Permit me, friend, I prithee, 

To pass my hand across my brows, and 
muse 

On those dear hills, that never more 
will meet 

The sight that throbs and aches be- 
neath my touch. 

As tho' there beat a heart in either 
eye ; thus, 

For when the outer lights are darken'd 

The memory's vision hath a keener 
edge. 

It grows upon me now — the semicircle 

Of dark blue waters and the narrow 
fringe 

Of curving beach — its wreaths of drip- 
ping green — 

Its pale pink shells — the summer-house 
aloft 

That open'd on the pines with doors of 
glass, _ 

A mountain nest — the pleasure-boat 
that rock'd 

Light green v/ith its own shadov>', keel 
to keel, 

Upon the dappled dimplings of the 
wave. 

That blanch'd upon its side. 

O Love, O Hope ! 
They come, they crowd upon me all at 

once — 
Moved from the cloud of unforgotten 

things. 
That sometimes on the horizon of the 

mind 



I Lies folded, often sweeps athwart in 
j storm — 

; Flash upon flash they lighten thro' me 

! — days 

Of dewy dawning, and the amber eyes 

When thou and I, Camilla, thou and I 

Were borne about the bay or safely 

moor'd 
Beneath a low-brow'd cavern, where 

the tide 
Plash'd, sapping its worn ribs; and all 

without 
The slowly ridging rollers on the cliffs 
Clash'd, calling to each other, and thro' 

the arch 
Down those loud waters, like a setting 

star, 
Mixt with the gorgeous west the light- 
house shone. 
And silver-smiling Venus ere she fell 
Would often loiter in her balmy blue. 
To crown it with herself. 

Here, too, my love 
Waver'd at anchor with me, when day 

liung 
From his mid-dome in Heaven's airy 

halls ; 
Gleams of the water-circles, as they 

broke, 
Flicker'dlike doubtful smiles about her 

lips, 
Quiver'd a flying glory on her hair. 
Leapt like a passing thought across her 

eyes ; 
And mine with one that will not pass, 

till earth 
And heaven pass too, dwelt on my 
heaven, a face 
! Most starry-fair, but kindled from v.ith- 
I in 

I As 'twere with dawn. She was dark- 
I hair'd, dark-eyed: 

I Oh, such dark eyes ! a single glance of 
] them 

Will govern a whole life from birth to 

death, 
Careless of all things else, led on with 

light 
In trances and in visions : look at them, 
You lose yourself in utter ignorance ; 



666 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



You cannot find their depth ; for they 
go back, 

And farther back, and still withdraw 
themselves 

Quite into the deep soul, that evermore 

Fresh springing from her fountains in 
the brain, 

jflill pouring thro', floods with redund- 
ant life 

Iler narrow portals. 

Trust me, long ago 
I should have died, if it were possible 
To die in gazing on that perfectness 
Which I do bear within me: I had 

died, 
But from my farthest lapse, my latest 

ebb, 
Thine image, like a charm of light and 

strength 
Upon the waters, push'd me back again 
On these deserted sands of barren life 
Tho' from the deep vault where the 

heart of Hope 
Fell into dust, and crumbled in the 

dark- 
Forgetting how to render beautiful 
Her countenance with quick and health- 
ful blood — 
Thou didst not sway me upward ; 

could I perish 
While thou, a meteor of the sepulchre. 
Didst swathe thyself all round Hope's 

quiet urn 
Forever ! He, that saith it, hath o'er- 

stept 
The slippery footing of his narrow wit. 
And fall'n away from judgment. Thou 

art light. 
To which my spirit leaneth all her 

flowers. 
And length of days, and immortality 
(Jf thought, and freshness ever self- 
renewed. 
For Time and Grief abode too long 

with Life, 
And, like all other friends i' the world, 

at last 
They grew aweary of her fellowship : 
iSo Time and Grief did beckon unto 

Death, 



And Death drew nigh and beat the 

doors of Life ; 
I5ut thou didst sit alone in the inner 

house, 
A wakeful portress, and didst parle 

with Death,— 
" This is a charmed dwelling which I 

hold ; " 
So Death gave back, and would no 

further come. 
Yet is my life nor in the present time, 
Nor in the present place. To me 

alone, 
Push'd from his chair of regal heritage. 
The Present is the vassal of the Past : 
So that, in that I have lived, do I live. 
And cannot die, and am, in having 

been, 
A portion of the pleasant yesterday, 
Thrust forward on to-day and out of 

place ; 
A body journeving onward, sick with 

toil, 
The weight as if of age upon my limbs, 
The grasp of hopeless grief about my 

heart, " [that, 

And all the senses weaken'd, save in 
Which long ago they had glean'd and 

garner'd up 
Into the granaries of memory — 
The clear brow, bulwark of the precious 

brain, 
Chink'd as you see, and seam'd — and 

all the while 
The light soul twines and mingles wiih 

the growths 
Of vigorous early days, attracted, won. 
Married, made one with, molten into 

all 
The beautiful in Past of act or place, 
And like the all-enduring camel> driven 
Far from the diamond fountain by the 

palms, 
Who toils across the middle moon-lit 

nights, 
Or when the white heats of the blind- 
ing noons 
Beat from the concave sand ; yet in 

him keeps 
A draught of that sweet fountain that 

he loves, 



THE LOVER'S TALE, 



667 



To stay his feet from falling, and his 

spirit 
From bitterness of death. 

Ye ask mc, friends, 
Wlien I began to love. liow should I 

tell you ? 
Or from the after-fulness of my heart, 
Flow back again unto my slender spring 
And first of "love, tho' every turn and 

depth 
Between is clearer in my life than all 
Its present flow. Ye know not what 

ye ask. [tell 

How should the broad and open flower 
What sort of bud it was, when, prest 

together 
In its green sheath, close-lapt in silken 

folds, 
It seem'd to keep its sweetness to it- 
self, 
Yet was not the less sweet for that it 

seem'd ? 
For young Life knows not when young 

Life was born. 
But takes it all for granted; neither 

Love, 
Warm in the heart, his cradle, can re- 
member 
Love in the womb, but resteth satisfied. 
Looking on her that brought him to 

the light : 
Or as men know not when they fall 

asleep 
Into delicious dreams, our other life. 
So know I not v;hen I began to love. 
This is my sum of knowledge — that my 

love 
Grew with myself — say rather, v/as my 

growth, 
My inv»'ard sap, the hold I have on 

earth, 
My outward circling air wherewith I 

breathe. 
Which yet upholds my life, and ever- 
more 
Is to m.y dailv life and daily death: 
For how should I have lived and not 

have loved ? 
Can ye take off the sweetness from the 

flower. 



The color and the sweetness from the 

rose. 
And place them by themselves ; or set 

apart 
Their motions and their brightness 

from the stars. 
And then point out the flower or the 

star ? 
Or build a wall betwixt my life and 

love. 
And tell me where I am ? 'Tis even 

thus: 
In that I live I love ; because I love 
I live : whaie'er is fountain to the 

one 
Is fountain to the other; and when- 
e'er 
Our God unknits the riddle of the 

one, 
There is no shade or fold of mystery 
Swathing the other. 

Many, many years 

(For they seem many and my most of 
life, 

And well I could have linger'd in that 
porch, 

So unproportion'd to the dwelling- 
place), 

In the May dews of childhood, oppo- 
site 

The flush and dawn of youth, we lived 
together, 

Apart, alone together on those hills. 

Before he saw my day my father 

died. 
And he was happy that he saw it not ; 
But I and the first daisy on his grave 
From the same clay came into light' at 

once. 
As Love and I do number equal years, 
So she, my love, is of an age with 

me. 
How like each other was the birth of 

each ! 
On the same morning, almost the same 

hour. 
Under the selfsame aspect of the stars 
(O falsehood of all starcraft !), we were 

born. [each ! 

How like each other was the birth of 



668 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



The sister of my mother — she that 

bore 
Camilla close beneath her beating 

heart, 
Which to the imprison'd spirit of the 

child, 
With its true-touched pulses in the 

flow 
And hourly visitation of the blood, 
Sent notes of preparation manifold, 
And mellow'd echoes of the outer 

world — 
My mother's sister, mother of my 

love, 
Who had a two-fold claim upon my 

heart. 
One twofold mightier than the other 

was, 
In giving so much beauty to the world, 
And so much wealth as God hath 

charged her with — 
Loathing to put it from herself for- 
ever. 
Left her own life with it ; and dying 

thus, 
Crown'd with her highest act the 

placid face [past. 

And breathless body of her good deeds 

. So we were born, so orphan'd. She 

was motherless 
And I without a father. So from 

each 
Of those two pillars which from earth 

uphold 
Our childhood, one had fallen away, 

and all 
The careful burden of our tender years 
Trembled upon the other. He that 

gave 
Her life, to me delightedly fulfill'd 
All loving kindnesses, all offices 
Of watchful care and trembling tender- 
ness. 
He waked for both : he pray'd for 

both : he slept 
Dreaming of both : nor was his love 

the less 
Because it was divided, and shot forth 
Boughs on each side, laden with whole 

some shade. 



Wherein we nested sleeping or awake, 
And sang aloud the matin-song of life. 

She was my foster-sister: on one 
j arm 

I The flaxen ringlets of our infancies 
I Wander'd, the while we rested : one 
! soft lap 

Pillow'd us both : a common light of 

eyes 
Was on us as we lay ; our baby lips. 
Kissing one bosom, ever drew from 

thence 
The stream of life, one stream, one 

life, one blood. 
One sustenance, which, still as thought 

grew large. 
Still larger moulding all the house of 

thought. 
Made all our tastes and fancies like, 

perhaps — 
All — all but one ; and strange to me, 

and sweet. 
Sweet thro' strange years to know that 

whatsoe'er 
Our general mother meant for me 

alone. 
Our mutual mother dealt to both of 

us : 
So what was earliest mine in earliest 

life, 
I shared with her in whom myself re- 
mains, 

As was our childhood, so our in- 
fancy, 
They tell me, was a very miracle 
Of fellow-feeling and communion. 
They tell me that we would not be 

alone — 
We cried when we were parted; when 

I wept, 
Her smile lit up the rainbow on my 

tears, 
Staid on the cloud of sorrow; that we 

loved 
The sound of one another's voices 

more 
Than the gray cuckoo loves his name, 

and learnt 
To lisp in tune together; that we slept 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



669- 



In the same cradle always, face to 

face, 
Heart beating time to heart, lip press- 
ing lip, _ j 
Folding each other, breathing on each \ 

other, i 

Dreaming together (dreaming of each j 

other 1 

Thev should have added), till the 

morning light ' 

Sloped thro' the pines, upon the dewy 

pane 
Falling, unseal'd our eyelids, and we 

woke 
To gaze upon each other. If this be 

true, 
At thought of which my whole soul j 

languishes 
And faints, and hath no pulse, no breath [ 

— as tho' j 

A man in some still garden should in- ' 

fuse ' 

Rich attar in the bosom of the rose. 
Till, drunk with its own wine, and j 

overfull i 

Of sweetness, and in smelling of it- I 

self, ! 

It fall on its own thorns — if this be 

true, — I 

And that way my wish leads me ever- 1 

more 
Still to believe it, 'tis so sweet a 

thought, — 
Why in the utter stillness of the soul 
Dotii question'd memory answer not, 

nor tell 
Of this our earliest, our closest-drawn, 
Most loveliest, earthly-heavenliest har- 
mony ? 

O blossom'd portal of the lonely 

house. 
Green prelude, April promise, glad 

new-year 
Of Being, which with earliest violets 
And lavish carol of clear-throated 

larks 
Fill'd all the March of life !— I will 

not speak of thee ; 
These have not seen thee, these can 

never know thee. 



They cannot understand me. Pass we 

then 
A term of eighteen years. Ye would 

but laugh 
If I should tell ycu how I hoard in 

thought 
The faded rhymes and scraps of an- 
cient crones. 
Gray relics of the nurseries of the 

world, 
Which are as gems set in my memory, 
Because she learnt them with me ; or 

what use 
To know her father left us just before 
The daffodil was blown t or how we 

found 
The dead man cast upon the shore ? 

All this 
Seems to the quiet daylight of your 

minds 
But cloud and smoke, and in the dark 

of mine 
Is traced with flame. Move with me 

to the event. 

There came a glorious morning, such 

a one 
As dawns but once a season. Mer- 
cury 
On sucli a morning would have flung 

himself 
From cloud to cloud, and swum with 

balanced wings 
To some tall mountain : when I said 

to her, 
"A day for gods to stoop," she an- 
swered, "Ay, 
And men to soar : " for as that other 

gazed. 
Shading his eyes till all the fiery 

cloud, 
The prophet and the chariot and the 

steeds, 
Suck'd into oneness like a little star 
W^ere drunk into the inmost blue, we 

stood. 
When first we came from out the pines 

at noon. 
With hands for eaves, uplooking and 

almost 
Waiting to see some blessed shape in 

heaven. 



670 



THE LOVER 'S TALE. 



So bathed we were in brilliance. Never 

yet 
Before or after have I known the 

spring ! 

Pour with such sudden deluges of light i 
Into the middle summer; for that day, [ 
Love, rising, shook his wings, and [ 

charged the winds | 

\\"ith spiced May-sweets from bound | 

to bound, and blew i 

Fresh fire into the sun, and from 

within ! 

Hurst thro' the heated buds, and sent ' 

his soul I 

Into the songs of birds, and touch'd ! 

far off I 

His mountain-altars, his high hills, with j 

flame I 

jMilder and purer. j 

Thro' the rocks we wound : 
The great pine shook with lonely 1 

sounds of joy 
That came on the sea-wind. As moun- 
tain streams 
Our bloods ran free : the sunshine 

seem'd to brood 
More warmly on the heart than on the 

brow, ! 

We often paused, and, looking back, ' 

we saw ! 

The clefts and openings in the moun- I 

tains fill'd I 

With the blue valley and the glistening ! 

brooks, I 

And all the low dark groves, a land of 

love ! I 

A land of promise, a land of memory, i 
A land of promise flowing with the 

milk 
And honey of delicious memories! 
And down to sea, and far as eye could 

ken. 
Each way from verge to verge a Holy 

Land. 
Still growing holier as you near'd the 

bay. 
For there the Temple stood. 

When we had reach'd 
The grassy platform on som.c hill, I 

stoop' d, [brows 

I gather'd the wild herbs, and for her 



And mine made garlands of the self- 
same flower, 
Which she took smiling, and with my 

work thus 
Crown'd her clear forehead. Once or 

twice she told me 
(For I remember all things) to let 

grow 
The flowers that run poison in their 

veins. 
She said. " The evil flourish in the 

world." 
Then playfullv she gave herself the 

lie— 
" Nothing in nature is unbeautiful ; 
So, brother, pluck, and spare not." 

So I wove 
Ev'n the dull-blooded poppy-stem, 

" whose flower, 
Hued with the scarlet of a fierce sun- 
rise. 
Like to the wild youth of an evi/ 

prince. 
Is without sweetness, but who crowns 

himself 
Above the secret poisons of his heart 
In his old age." A graceful thought of 

hers 
Grav'n on my fancy! And oh, how 

like a nymph, 
A stately mountain nymph, she look'd ! 

how native 
Unto the hills she trod on I While T 

gazed. 
My coronal slowly disentwined itself 
And fell between us both; tho' while I 

gazed 
My spirit leap'd as with those thrills of 

bliss 
That strike across the soul in prayer, 

and show us 
That we are surely heard. Methought 

a light 
Burst from the garland I had wov'n, 

and stood 
A solid glory, on her bright black hair; 
A light methought broke from her 

dark, dark eyes. 
And shot itself into the singing winds: 
A mystic light flash'*^ ev'n from her 

white robe 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 671 

As from a glass in the sun, and fell ' Gilded with broom, or shatter'd into 

about ! spires, 

My footsteps on the mountains. 1 And glory of broad waters interfused, 

Last we came ' ^V hence rose as it were breath and 
To what our people call " The Hill of j steam of gold, 

Woe." I And over all the great wood rioting 

A bridge is there, that look'd at from j And climbing, streak'd or starr'cl at 

beneath, intervals 

Seems but a cobweb filament to link { With falling brook or blossom'd bush 
i'hc yawning of an earthquake-cloven | — and last, 

chasm, | Framing the mighty landscape to the 

And thence one night, when all the i west, 

winds v.ere loud, j A purple range of mountain-cones, be- 

A woful man (for so the story went) i tween 

Had thrust his wife and child and j Whose interspaces gush'd in blinding 

dash'd himself j bursts 

Into the dizzy depth below. Below, ' The incorporate blaze of sun and sea. 
Fierce in the strength of far descent, a i At length 

str<='am I Descending from the point and stand- 

Flies with a shatter'd foam along the 1 ing both, 

chasm. ; There on the tremulous bridge, that 

j from beneath 

The path was perilous, loosely strewn ; Had seem'd a gossamer filament up in 

with crags : j air, 

We mounted slowly; yet to both there ! We paused amid the splendor. All 

came j the west 

The joy of life in steepness overcome, 1 And e'en unto the middle south was 
And victories of ascent, and looking ! ribb'd 

down I And barr'd with bloom on bloom. The 

( >n all that had look'd down on us ; ! sun below, 

and joy j Held for a space 'twixt cloud and 

In reathing nearer heaven ; and joy j wave, shower 'd down 

to me, j Rays of a mighty circle, weaving over 

High over all the azure-circled earth, ! That various wilderness a tissue of 
To breathe with her as if in heaven it- \ light 

self ; j Unparallei'd. On the other side, the 

And more than joy that I to her be- j moon, 

came j Half melted into thin blue air, stood 

Her guardian and her angel, raising I still 

her j And pale and fibrous as a wither'd 

Still nigher, past all peril, until she . leaf, 

saw I Nor yet endured in presence of His 

Beneath her feet the region far away, j eyes 

Beyond the nearest mountain's bosky ; To indue his lustre ; most unlover- 

brows, ' j like. 

Burst into open prospect — heath and 1 Since in his absence full of light and 

hill, j joy. 

And hollow lined and wooded to the [ And giving light to others. But this 

lips, i most, 

A-nd steep-down walls of battlemented ! Next to her presence whom I loved so 

rock i welU 



672 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Spoke loudly even into my inmost 

heart 
As to my outward hearing : the loud 

stream, 
Forth, issuing from, his portals in the 

crag 
(A visible link unto the home of my 

heart), 
Ran amber toward the west, and nigh 

the sea 
Parting my own loved mountains was 

received, 
Shorn of its strength, into the sym- 
pathy 
Of that small bay, which out to open 

main 
Glow'd intermingling close beneath the 

sun. 
Spirit of love ! that little hour was 

bound 
Shut in from Time, and dedicate to 

thee : 
Thy fires from heaven had touched it, 

and the earth 
They fell on became hallow'd ever- 
more. 

We turn'd : our eyes met : hers 

were bright, and mine 
Were dim with floating tears, that shot 

the sunset 
In lightnings round me ; and my name 

was borne 
Upon her breath. Henceforth my 

name has been 
A hallow'd memory like the names of 

old, 
A centred, glory-circled memory, 
And a peculiar treasure, brooking not 
Exchange or currency : and in that 

hour 
A hope flowed round me, like a golden 

mist 
Charm'd amid eddies of melodious 

airs, 
A moment, ere the onward whirlwind 

shatter it, 
Waver'd and floated — which was less 

than Hope, 
Because it lack'd the power of -erfect 

Hope ; 



But which was more and higher than 

all Hope, 
Because all other Hope had lower 

aim ; 
Even that this name to which her gra- 
cious lips 
Did lend such gentle utterance, this 

one name. 
In some obscure hereafter, might in- 

wreathe 
(How lovelier, nobler then!) her life, 

her love, 
With my life, love, soul, spirit, and 

heart and strength. 

" Brother," she said, " let this be 

call'd henceforth 
The Hill of Hope ; " and I replied, "O 

sister, 
j\Iy will is one with thine; the Hill of 

Hope." 
Nevertheless, we did not change the 

name. 

I did not speak ; I could not speak 

my love. 
Love lieth deep : Love dwells not in 

lip-depths. 
Love v.'raps his wings on either side 

the heart,. 
Constraining it with kisses close and 

warm, 
Absorbing all the incense of sweet 

thoughts 
So that they pass not to the shrine of 

sound. 
Else had the life of that delighted 

hour 
Drunk in the largeness of the utter- 
ance 
Of Love ; but how should Earthly 

measure mete 
The Heavenly-unmeasured or unlim- 
ited Love, 
Who scarce can tune his high majestic 

sense 
Unto the thunder-song that wheels the 

spheres. 
Scarce living in the ^^olian harmony, 
And flowing odor of the spacious air, 
Scarce housed within the circle of this 

Earth, 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



^n 



Be cabin'd up in words and syllables, 
Which pass with that which breathes 

them ? Sooner Earth 
Might go round Heaven, and the 

straight girth of Time 
Inswathe the fulness of Eternity, 
- Than language grasp the infinite of 

Love. 

O day which did cnwomb that happy 
hour, [day ! 

Thou art blessed in the years, divinest 

O Genius of that hour which dost up- 
hold 

Thy coronal of glory like a God, 

Amid thy melancholy mates far-seen, 

Who walk before thee, ever turning 
round 

To gaze upon thee till their eyes are 
dim 

With dwelling on the light and depth 
of thine,- 

Thy name is ever worshipp'd among 
hours ! 

Had I died then, I had not seem'd to 
die, 

F(ir bliss stood round me like the light 
of Heaven — 

Had I died then, I had not known the 
death ; 

Yea had the Power from whose right 
hand the light 

Of Life issueth, and from whose left 
hand fioweth 

The shadow of Death, perennial efflu- 
ences. 

Whereof to all that draw the whole- 
some air 

Somewhile the one must overflow the 
other ; 

Then had he stemm'd my day with 
night, and driven 

My current to the fountain wheijce it 
sprang,— 

Even his own abiding excellence — 

On me, methinks, that shock of gloom 
had fall'n 

Unfelt, and in this glory I had merged 

The other, like the sun I gazed upon, 

Which seeming for the moment due to 
death, 

43 



And dipping his head low beneath the 

verge, 
Yet bearing round about him his own 

day. 
In confidence of unabated strength, 
Steppeth from Heaven to Heaven, 

from light to light, 
And holdeth his undimmed forehead 

far 
Into a clearer zenith, pure of cloud. 

We trod the shadow of the down- 
ward hill ; 

W^e past from light to dark. On the 
other side 

Is scoop'd a cavern and a mountain 
hall. 

Which none have fathom'd. If you 
go far in 

(The country poople rumor) you may 
hear 

The moaning of the woman and the 
child, 

Shut in the secret chambers of the 
rock. 

I too have heard a sound — perchance 
of streams 

Running far on within its inmost halls, 

The home of darkness ; but the cav- 
ern-mouth. 

Half overtrailed with a wanton weed, 

Gives birth to a brawling brook, that 
passing lightly 

Adown a natural stair of tangled roots. 

Is presently received in a sweet grave 

Of eglantines, a place of burial 

Far lovelier than its cradle ; for unseen 

But taken with the sweetness of the 
place, 

It makes a constant bubbling melody 

That drowns the nearer echoes. Lower 
down 

Spreads out a little lake, that, flooding, 
leaves 

Low banks of yellow sand ; and from 
the woods 

That belt it rise three dark, tall cy- 
presses, — 

Three cypresses, symbols of mortal 
woe. 

That men plant over graves. 



674 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Hither we came, 
And sitting down upon the golden moss, 
Held converse sweet and low — low 

converse sweet. 
In which our voices bore least part. 

The wind 
Told a love tale beside us, how he 

woo'd 
The waters, and the waters answering 

lisp'd 
To kisses of the wind, that, sick with 

love. 
Fainted at intervals, and grew again 
To utterance of passion. Ye cannot 

shape 
Fancy so fair as is this memory. 
Methought all excellence that ever was 
Had drawn herself from many thou- 
sand years, 
And all the separate Edens of this 

Earth, 
To centre in this place and time. I 

listen'd. 
And her words stole with. most pre- 
vailing sweetness 
Into my heart, as thronging fancies 

come 
To bo3'S and girls when sunmier days 

are new. 
And soul and heart and body are all 

at ease : 
What marvel my Camilla told me all ? 
It was so happy an hour, so sweet a 

place. 
And I was as the brother of her blood, 
And by that name I moved upon her 

breath ; 
Dear name, which had too much of 

nearness in it 
And heralded the distance of this time ! 
At first her voice was very sweet and 

low, 
As if she were afraid of utterance ; 
But in the onward current of her 

.speech 
(As echoes of the hollow-banked 

brooks 
Are fashioned by the channel which 

they keep), 
Her words did of their meaning bor- 
row sound. 



Her cheek did catch the color of her 

words. 
I heard and trembled, yet I could but 

hear ; 
My heart paused — my raised eyelids 

would not fall, 
But still I kept my eyes upon the sky. 
I seem'd the only part of Time stood 

still, 
And saw the motion of all other 

things; 
While her words, syllable by syllable, 
Like water, drop by drop, upon my 

ear 
Fell ; and I wish'd, yet wish'd her not 

to speak ; 
But she spake on, for I did name no 

wish. 
What marvel my Camilla told me all 
Her maiden dignities of Hope and 

Love — 
" Perchance," she said, " return'd." 

Even then the stars 
Did tremble in their stations as I 

gazed : 
But she spake on, for I did name no 

wish. 
No wish — no hope. Hope was not 

wholly dead, 
But breathing hard at the approach of 

Death,— 
Camilla, my Camilla, who was mine 
No longer in the dearest sense of 

mine — 
For all the secret of her inmost heart 
And all the maiden empire of her 

mind. 
Lay like a map before me, and I saw 
There, where I hoped myself to reign 

as king, 
There, where that day I crown d my- 
self as king. 
There in my realm and even on my 

throne, 
Another ! Then it seem'd as tho' a 

link 
Of some tight chain within my inmost 

frame [not 

Was riven in twain : that life I heeded 
Flow'd from me, and the darkness of 

the grave. 



THE LOVER'S TALE, 



675 



The darkness of the grave and utter 

night, 
Did swallow up my vision ; at her 

feet, 
Even the feet of her I loved, I fell, 
Smit with exceeding sorrow unto 

Death. 

Then had the earth beneath me 

yawning cloven 
With such a sound as when an iceberg 

splits 
From cope to base — had Heaven from 

all her doors. 
With all her golden thresholds clash- 
ing, roll'd 
Her heaviest thunder — I had lain as 

dead, 
Mute, blind, and motionless as then I 

lay; 
Dead, for henceforth there was no ife 

for me ! 
Mute, for henceforth what use were 

words to me ! 
Blind, for the day was as the night to 

me ! 
The night to me was kinder than the 

day ; 
The night in pity took away my day, 
Because my grief as yet was newly 

born 
Of eyes too weak to look upon the 

light; 
And thro' the hasty notice of the ear 
Frail Life was startled from the tender 

love 
Of him she brooded over. Would I 

had lain 
Until the plaited ivy-tress had wound 
Round my worn limbs, and the wild 

brier had driven 
Its knotted thorns thro' my unpaining 

brows, 
Leaning its roses on my faded eyes. 
The wind had blown above me, and 

the rain 
Had fall'n upon me, and the gilded 

snake 
Had nestled in the bosom-throne of 

Love, 
But I had been at rest for evermore. 



Long time entrancement held me. 

All too soon 
Life (like a wanton too-officious friend, 
Who will not hear denial, vain and 

rude 
With proffer of unwished-for services) 
Entering all the avenues of sense 
Past thro' into his citadel, the brain, 
With hated warmth of ai^prehensive- 

ness. 
And first the chillness of the sprinkled 

brook 
Smote on my brows, and then I seem'd 

to hear 
Its murmur, as the drowning seaman 

hears, 
Who with his head below the surface 

dropt 
Listens the muffled blooming indis 

tinct 
Of the confused floods, and dimly 

knows 
His head shall rise no more : and the;-. 

came in 
The white light of the weary moon 

above, 
Diffused and molten into flaky cloud. 
Was my sight drunk that it did shape 

to me 
Him who should own that name ? 

Were it not well 
If so be that the echo of that name 
Ringing within the fancy had updrawr. 
A fashion and a phantasm of the form 
It should attach to ? Phantom ! — had 

the ghastliest 
That ever lusted for a body, sucking 
The foul steam of the grave to thicken. 

by it, 
There in the shuddering moonlight 

brought its face 
And what it has for eyes as close t > 

• mine 
As he did — better that than his, than 

he 
The friend, the neighbor, Lionel, the 

beloved. 
The loved, the lover, the happy 

Lionel, 
The low-voiced, tender-spirited Lionel, 
All joy, to whom my agony was a joy. 



676 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Oil how her choice did leap forth froir) 

his eyes ! 
Oh how her love did clothe itself in 

smiles 
About his lips ! and— not one moment's 

grace — 
Then when the effect weigh'd seas 

upon my head 
To come my way ! to twit me with the 

cause ! 

Was not the land as free thro' all 

her ways 
To him as me ? Was not his wont to 

walk 
Between the going light and growing 

night ? 
liad I not learnt my loss before he 

came ? 
Could that be more because he came 

my wa]' ? 
Why should he not come my way if he 

would ? 
And yet to-nighf; to-night — when all 

my wealth 
Flash'd from me in a moment and I 

fell 
Beggar'd forever — \\\vj should \\t come 

my way 
Robed in those robes of light 1 must 

not wear, 
With that great crown of beams about 

his brows — 
Come like an angel to a damned soul, 
To tell him of the bliss he had with 

God- 
Come like a careless and greedy heir 
That scarce can wait the reading of 

will 
Before he takes possession ? Was 

mine a mood 
To be invaded rudely, and not rather 
A sacred, secret, unapproached woe. 
Unspeakable ? I was shut up with 

Grief ; 
She took the body of my past delight, 
Narded and swathed and balm'd it for 

herself. 
And laid it in a sepulchre of rock 
Never to rise again. I was led mute 
Into her temple like a sacrifice ; 



I was the High Priest in her holiest 

place, 
Not to be loudly broken in upon. 

O friend, thoughts deep and heavy as 
these well nigh 
O'erbore the limits of my brain ; but 

^ he 
Bent o'er me, and my neck his arm up- 
stayed. 
I thought it was an adder's fold, and 

once 
I strove to disengage myself, but fail'd, 
Being so feeble : she bent above me, 

too; 
Wan was her cheek ; for whatso'er of 

blight 
Lives in the dewy touch of pity had 

made 
The red rose there a pale one — and 

her eyes — 
I saw the moonlight glitter on their 

tears — 
And some few drops of that distress- 
ful rain 
Fell on my face, and her long ringlets 

moved, 
Drooping and beaten by the breeze, 

and brush'd 
My fallen forehead in their to and fro, 
For in the sudden anguish of her heart 
Loosed from their simple thrall they 

had flow'd abroad, 
And floated on and parted round her 

neck. 
Mantling her form half way. She, 

when I woke. 
Something she ask'd, I know not what, 

and ask'd, 

Unanswer'd, since I spake not ; foi 

the sound 
Of that dear voice so musically low. 
And now first heard with any sense of 

pain, 
As it had taken life away before, 
Choked all the syllables, that strove 

to rise 
From my full heart. 

The blissful lover, too, 
P'rom his great hoard of happiness 

distill'd 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



677 



Some drops of solace : like a vain rich 

man, 
That, having always prospered in the 

world, 
Folding his hands, deals comfortable 

words 
To hearts wounded forever : yet, in 

truth. 
Fair speech was his and delicate of 

phrase, 
Falling in whispers on the sense, ad- 

dress'd 
More to the inward than the outward 

ear, 
As rain of the midsummer midnight 

soft. 
Scarce heard, recalling fragrance and 

the green 
Of the dead spring : but mine was 

wholly dead, 
No bud, no leaf, no flower, no fruit for 

me. 
^'et who had done, or who had suffer'd 

wrong ? 
And why was I to darken their pure 

love, 
If, as I found, they two did love each 

other. 
Because my own was darken'd ? Why 

was I 
To cross betv.'een their happy star and 

them ? 
To stand a shadow by their shining 

doors, 
And vex them with my darkness ? 

Did I love her ? 
Ye know that I did love her ; to this 

present 
My full-orb'd love has waned not. 

Did I love her, 
And could I look upon her tearful 

eyes ? 
What had she done to w-eep ? Why 

should she weep ? 
O innocent of spirit — let my heart 
Break rather — whom the gentlest airs 

of Heaven 
Should kiss with an unwonted gentle- 
ness. 
Her love did murder mine ? What 

then ? She deem'd 



I wore a brother's mind : she call'd me 

brother: 
She told all her love : she shall not 

weep. 

The brightness of a burning thought, 

awhile 
In battle with the glooms of my dark 

will. 
Moon-like emerged, and to itself lift 

up 
There on the depth of an unfathom'd 

woe 
Reflex of action. Starting up at once, 
As from a dismal dream of my own 

death, 
I, for I loved her, lost my love in 

Love ; 
I, for I loved her, graspt the hand she 

lov'd, 
And laid it in her own, and sent my 

cry 
Thro' the blank night to Him who 

loving made 
The happy and the unhappy love, that 

He 
Would hold the hand of blessing over 

them, 
Lionel, the happy, and her, and her 

his bride ! 
Let them so love that men and boys 

may say, 
" Lo ! how they love each other ! " 

till their love 
Shall ripen to a proverb, unto all 
Known, when their faces are forgot in 

the land — 
One golden dream of love, from which 

may death 
Awake them with heaven's music in a 

life 
More living to some happier happi- 
ness. 
Swallowing its precedent in victory. 
And as for me, Camilla, as for me, — 
The dew of tears is an unwholesome 

dew. 
They will but sicken the sick. plant the 

more. 
Deem that I love thee but as brothers 

do, 



67S 



THE LOVEJ<'S TALE. 



So shalt thou love mc still as sisters do ; 
Or if thou dream aught farther, dream 

but how 
I could have loved thee, had there 

been none else 
To love as lovers, loved again by thee. 

Or this, or somewhat like to this, I 

spake. 
When I beheld her weep so ruefully ; 
For sure my love should ne'er indue 

the front 
And mask of Hate, who lives on 

others' moans. 
Si-.al! Love pledge Hatred in her bit- 
ter draughts, 
.\nd batten on her poisons? Love 

forbid ! 
Love passeth not the threshold of cold 

Hate, 
And Hate is strange beneath the root 

of Love 
O Love, 'if t]iou be'st Love, dry up 

these tears 
Shed for the love of Love ; for tho' 

mine image, 
The subject of thy power, be cold in 

her. 
Vet, like cold snow, it melteth in the 

source 
Of these sad tears, and feeds their 

downward flow. 
So Love, arraing'd to judgment and to 

death, 
Received unto him.self a part of blame 
Being guiltless, as an innocent prisoner, 
Who, when the woful sentence hath 

been past, 
And all the clearness of his fame hath 

gone 
Beneath the shadow of the curse of 

man. 
First falls asleep in swoon, wherefrom 

av»'aked, 
And looking round upon his tearful 

friends, 
Forthv.'ith and in his agony conceives 
A shameful sense as of a cleaving 

crime — 
For whence without some guilt should 

such grief be ? 



So died that hour, and fell into the 
abysm 

Of forms outworn, but not to me out- 
worn, 

Who never hail'd another — was there 
one ? 

There might be one— one other, worth 
the life 

That made it sensible. So that hour 
died 

Like odor rapt into the winged wind 

Born into alien lands and far away. 

There be some hearts so airily built, 

that they, 
Tiiey — when their love is wreck'd — if 

Love can wreck — 
On that sharp ridge of utmost doom 

ride highly 
Above the perilous seas of Change and 

Chance; 
Naj% . more, hold out the lights of 

cheerfulness ; 
As the tall ship, that many a dreary 

year 
Knit to some dismal sand-bank far tit 

sea, 
All thro' the livelong hours of utter 

dark, 
Showers slanting light upon the dol- 
orous wave. 
For me — what light, what gleam on 

those black ways 
Where Love could walk with banish'd 

Hope no m.ore ? 

It was ill done to part you. Sisters 

fair; 
Love's arms were wreath'd about the 

neck of Hope, 
And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love drew 

in her breath 
In that close kiss, and drank her whis- 

per'd tales. 
They said that Love would die when 

Hope was gone, 
And Love mourn'd long, and sorrow'd 

after Hope ; 
At last she sought out Memory, and_ 

they trod 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



679 



The same old paths where Love had 

walk'd with Hope 
And Memory fed the soul of Love with 

tears. 



IL 

From that time forth I would not see 

her more ; 
])Ut many weary moons I lived alone — 
Alone, and in the heart of the great 

forest. 
Sometimes upon the hills beside the 

sea 
All day T watch'd the floating isles of 

shade, 
And sometimes on the shore, upon the 

sands 
Insensibly I drew her name, until 
The meaning of the letters shot into 
My brJiin ; anon the wanton billow 

wash'd 
Them over, till they faded like my 

love. 
The hollow caverns heard me — the 

black brooks 
Of the mid-forest heard me — the soft 

winds, 
Laden with thistle down and seeds of 

flowers, 
Paused in their course to hear me, for 

my voice 
Was all of thee : the merry linnet 

knew me. 
The squirrel knew me, and the dragon- 
fly 
Shot by me like a flash of purple fire. 
The rough brier tore my bleeding 

palms ; the hemlock 
IJrow-high; did strike my forehead as I 

past ; 
Vet trod I not the wild flower in my 

path, 
Xor bruised the wild bird's egg. 

Was this the end .' 
Why grew we then together in one 

plot 1 
Why fed we from one fountain ? drew 

one sun ? 
Why were our mothers branches of 

one stem .? 



Why were we one in all things, save 
in that 

Where to have been one had been the 
cope and crown 

Of ail I hoped and fear'd ?— if that 
same nearness 

Were father to this distance, and that 
one 

Vauntcourier to this double ? if Affec- 
tion 

Living slew Love, and Sympathy hew'd 
out 

The bosom-sepulchre of Sympathy ? 

Chiefly I sought the cavern and the 
hill 

WHiere last we roam'd together, for the 
sound 

Of the loud stream was pleasant, and 
the wind 

Came wooingly with woodbine smells. 
Sometimes 

All day I sat within the cavern-mouth, 

Fixing my eyes on those three cypress 
cones 

That spired above the wood ; and with 
mad hand 

Tearing the bright leaves of the ivy- 
screen, 

I cast them in the noisy brook be- 
neath. 

And watch'd them till they vanish'd 
from my sight 

Beneath the bower of wreathed eglan- 
tines : 

And all the fragments of the living 
rock 

(Huge blocks, which som.e old trem- 
bliiig of the world 

Had loosen'd from the mountain, til\ 
they fell 

Half digging their own graves) these 
in my agony 

Did I make bare of all the golden 
moss, 

W^herewith the dashing runnel in the 
spring 

Had liveried them all over. In my 
brain 

The spirit seem'd to flag from thought 
to thought, 



68o 



THE- LOVER'S TALE. 



As moonlight wandering thro' a mist : 

my blood 
Crept like marsh drains thro' all my 

languid limbs ; 
The motions of my heart seem'd far 

within me, 
Unfrequcnt, low, as tho'it told its 

pulses ; 
And yet it shook me, that my frame 

would shudder. 
As if 'twere drawn asunder by the rack. 
But over the deep graves of Hope and 

Fear, 
And all the broken palaces of the Past, 
Brooded one master-passion evermore, 
Like to a low-hung and a fiery sky 
Above some fair metropolis, eartli- 

shock'd, — 
Hung round with ragged ruins and 

burning folds, — 
Embathing all with wild and woful 

hues. 
Great hUls of ruins, and collapsed 

masses 
Of thunder-shaken columns indistinct, 
And fused together in the tvrannous 

light- 
Ruins, the ruin of all my life and me ! 

Sometimes I thought Camilla was 
no more, 

Some one had told she was dead, and 
ask'd me 

If I would see her burial; then I 
seem'd 

To rise, and through the forest-shadow 
borne 

With more than mortal swiftness, I 
ran down 

The steepy sea-bank, till I came upon 

The rear of a procession, curving 
round 

The silver-sheeted bay : in front of 
which 

Six stately virgins, all in white, up- 
bare 

A broad earth-sweeping pall of whitest 
lawn, 

Wreathed round the bier with gar- 
lands : in the distance, [hill 

From out the yellow woods upon the 



Look'd forth the summit and the pin- 
nacles 

Of a gray steeple — thence at intervals 

A low bell tolling. All the pageantry, 

Save those six virgins which upheld 
the bier. 

Were stoled from head to foot in flow- 
ing black : 

One walk'd abreast with mc, and veil'd 
his brow, 

And he was loud in weeping and in 
praise 

Of her he follow'd : a strong sympatliy 

Shook all my soul : I flung myself upon 
him 

In tears and cries : I told him al! my 
love, 

How I had loved her from the first ; 
whereat 

He shrank and howl'd, and from his 
brow drew back 

His hand to push me from him ; and 
the face. 

The very face and form of Lionel 

Flash'd thro' my eyes into my inner- 
most brain, 

And at his feet I seemed to faint and 
fall. 

To fall and die away. I could not 
rise 

Albeit I strove to follow. They past 
on, 

The lordly Phantasms ! in their floating 
folds 

They past and were no more : but I 
had fallen 

Prone by the dashing runnel on th.e 
grass. 

Alway the inaudible invisible thought 
Artificer and subject, lord and slave, 
Shaped by the audible and visible, 
Moulded the audible and visible ; 
All crisped sounds of wave and leaf 

and wind 
Flatter' d the fancy of my fading brain ; 
The cloud-pavilion'd element, the 

wood. 
The mountain, the three cypresses, the 

cave, [moon 

Storm, sunset, glows and glories of the 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



68i 



Below black firs, ^Yhen silent-creepir.g 

winds 
Laid the long night in silver streaks 

and bars, 
Were wrought into the tissue of my 

dream : 
The moanings in the forest, the loud 

brook, 
Cries of the partridge like a rusty key 
Turn'd in a lock, owl-whoop and dor- 
hawk-whir 
Awoke me not, but were a part of 

sleep. 
And voices in the distance calling to 

me 
And in my vision bidding me dream 

on. 
Like sounds without the twilight realm 

of dreams. 
Which wander round the bases of the 

hills, 
And murmur at the low-dropt eaves of 

sleep. 
Half -entering . the portals. Often- 
times 
The vision had fair prelude, in the 

end 
Opening on darkness, stately vesti- 
bules 
To caves and shows of Death : whether 

the mind, 
With some revenge, — even to itself 

unknown, — 
Made strange division of its suffering 
With her, whom to have suffering 

view'd had been 
Extremest pain ; or that the clear-eyed 

Spirit, 
Being blunted in the Present, grew at 

length 
Prophetical and prescient of wha*^e'er 
The Future had in store : or "ihat 

which most 
Enchains belief, the sorrow of my 

spirit 
Was of so wide a compass it took in 
All I had loved, and vny dull agony, 
Ideally to her transferr'd, became 
Anguish intolerable. 

The day waned ; 
Alone I sat with her: about mv brow 



Her warm breath floated in the utter- 
ance 
Of silver-chorded tones : her lips were 

sunder'd 
With smiles of tranquil bliss, which 

broke in light 
Like morning from her eyes — her elo- 
quent eyes 
(As I have seen them many a hundred 

times), 
Filled all with pure clear fire, thro' 

mine down rain'd- 
Their spirit-searching splendors. As 

a vision 
Unto a haggard prisoner, iron-stay'd 
In damp and dismal dungeons under- 
ground. 
Confined on points of faith, when 

strength is shock'd 
With torment, and expectancy of 

worse 
Upon the morrov*', thro' the ragged 

walls. 
All unawares before his half-shut 

eyes, 
Comes in upon him in the dead of 

night, 
And with the excess ')f sweetness and 

of awe, 
Makes the heart tremble, and the sight 

run over 
Upon his steely gyves; so those fair 

eyes 
Shone on my darkness, forms which 

ever stood 
Within the magic cirque of memory, 
Invisible but deathless, waiting still 
The edict of the will to re-assume 
The semblance of those rare realities 
Of which they were the mirrors. Now 

the light 
Which was their life bursts through 

the cloud of thought 
Keen, irrepressible. 

It was a room 
W^ithin the summer-house of which I 

spake. 
Hung round vvith paintings of the sea, 

and one 
A vessel in mid-ocean, her heaved 

prow 



C8: 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Clambering, the mast bent and the 

ravin wind 
In her sail roaring. From the outer 

day, 
]5et\vixt the close-set ivies came a 

broad 
And solid beam of isolated light, 
Crowded with driving atomies, and 

fell 
Slanting upon that picture, from prime 

youth 
Well known, well loved. She drew it 

long ago 
Forth-gazing on the waste and open 

sea, 
One morning when the upblown billow- 
ran 
Shoreward beneath red clouds, and I 

had pour'd 
Into the shadowing pencil's naked 

forms 
Color and life : it was a bond and seal 
Of friendship, spoken of with tearful 

smiles; 
A monument of childhood and of 

love ; 
The poesy of childhood ; my lost love 
Symbol'd in storm. We gazed on it 

together 
In mute and glad remembrance, and 

each heart 
Grew closer to the other, and the eye 
Was riveted and charm-bound, gazing 

like 
The Indian on a still-eyed snake, low- 

couch'd — 
A beauty which is death ; when all at 

once 
That painted vessel, as with inner 

life. 
Began to heave upon that painted sea ; 
An earthquake, my loud heart-beats, 

made the ground 
Reel under us, and all at once, soul, 

life, 
And breath and motion, past and flow'd 

away 
To those unreal billows : round and 

round 
A whirlwind caught and bore us ; 

mighty gyves 



Rapid and vast, of hissing spray wind- 
driven 
Far thro' the dizzy dark. Aloud she 

shriek'd ; 
My heart was cloven with pain; I 

wound my arms 
About her: we whirl'd giddily; the 

wind 
Sung ; but I claspt her without fear : 

her weight 
Shrank in my grasp, and over my dim 

eyes. 
And parted lips which drank her 

breath, down hung 
The jaws of Death : I, groaning, from 

me flung 
Her empty phantom: all the sway and 

whirl 
Of the storm dropt to windless calm, 

and I 
Down welted thro* the dark ever and 

ever. 

III. 

I CAME one day and sat among the 

stones 
Strewn in the entry of the moaning 

cave; 
A morning air, sweet after rain, ran 

over 
The rippling levels of the lake, and 

blew 
Coolness and moisture and all smells 

of bud 
And foliage from the dark and drip- 
ping woods 
Upon mv fever'd brows that shook and 

throbb'd 
From temple unto temple. To what' 

height 
The day had grown I know not. Then 

came on me 
The hollow tolling of the bell, and all 
The vision of the bier. As heretofore 
I walk'd behind with one who veil'd 

his brow. 
Mcthought b)' slow degrees the sullen 

bell 
Toll'd quicker, and the breakers on 

the shore 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



683 



Sloped into louder surf: those that 

went with me, 
And those that held the bier before 

my face, 
Moved with one spirit round about the 

bay. 
Trod swifter steps ; and while I walk'd 

with these 
In marvel at that gradual change, I 

thought 
Four bells instead of one began to 

• ring, 
Four merry bells, four merry marriage 

bells, 
In clanging cadence jangling peal on 

peal — 
A long loud clash of rapid marriage 

bells. 
Then those who led the van, and those 

in rear, 
Rush'd into dance, and like wild Bac- 
chanals 
Fled onward to the steeple in the 

woods : 
I, too, was borne along and felt the 

blast 
Beat on my heated eyelids : all at 

once 
The front rank made a sudden halt ; 

the bells 
Lapsed into frightful stillness; the 

surge fell 
From thunder into whispers; those 

six maids 
With shrieks and ringing laughter on 

the sand 
Threw down the bier; the woods upon 

the hill 
Waved with a sudden gust that sweep- 
ing down 
Took the edges of the pall, and blew 

it far 
Until it hung, a little silver cloud 
Over the sounding seas : I turn'd 5 my 

heart 



Shrank in me, like a snow-flake in the 

hand. 
Waiting to see the settled countenance 
Of her I lov'd, adorn'd with fading 

flowers. 
But she from out her death-like chrys- 
alis, 
She from her bier, as into fresher life, 
: My sister, and my cousin, and my 
I ' love, 

: Leapt lightly clad in bridal white — her 
I hair 

' Studded with one rich Provence rose 
i — a light 

[ Of smiling welcome round her lips — 
I htr eyes 

i And cheeks as bright as when she 
I climb'd the hill. 

One hand she reach'd to those that 
I came behind, 

And while I mused nor yet endured to 

take 
So rich a prize, the man who stood 

with me 
Stept gayly forward, throwing down 

his robes. 
And claspt her hand in his : again the 

bells 
Jangled and clang'd : again the stormy 

surf 
Crash'd in the shingle : and the whirl- 
ing rout 
Led by those two rush'd into dance, 

and fled 
Wind-footed to the steeple in the 

woods, 
Till they were swallow'd in the leafy 

bowers, 
And I stood sole beside the vacant 
bier. 

There, there, my latest vision — then 
the event ! 



For 



The Golden Supper," see 
page 449. 



684 



CHILD-SONGS. 



CHILD-SONGS. 



THE CITY CHILD. 



Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander ? 

Whither from this pretty home, the'home where mother dwells ? 
" Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, 
" All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones, 

Rose3 and lilies and Canterbury-bells.-' 

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander ? 

Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours t 
" Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, 
" All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis, 

Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle-flowers." 



MINNIE AND WINNIE. 



Minnie and Winnie 
Slept in a shell. 

Sleep, little ladies! 
And they slept well. 

Pink was the shell withi 

Silver without ; 
Sounds of the great sea 

Wander'd about. 



Sleep, little ladies ! 

Wake not soon ! 
Echo on echo 

Dies to the moon. 

Two bright stars 

Peep'd into the shell. 

What are thev dreaming cf 
Wlio can tell ? " 



Started a green linnet 
Out of the croft ; 

Wake, little ladies, 
The sun is aloft ! 



